The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (14 page)

CHAPTER 6
"I do not scruple to employ mendacity and a fictitious appearance
of female incompetence when the occasion demands it."

I fear my behavior thereafter did me no credit. The sight of the cat strolling toward me sent me into a frenzy, I snatched it up and shook it, and I think I shouted at it, demanding to know what it had done with Emerson This action appeared to surprise it, instead of struggling and scratching, it hung limp in
my hands and let out an inquiring mew. When its mouth opened I saw there was something caught on
one tooth. It was a shred of dirty cotton that might have come from a native robe.
After a time I heard one of my rescuers remark in a worried voice, "Say, boys, the lady's gone off her head. She'll hurt herself tearing around like that, how about I give her a little sock on the jaw?"
"You can't sock a lady, you lummox," was the equally worried reply. "Damned if I know what to do."
The words penetrated the fog of horror that had enveloped me. Shame overcame me, common sense returned. I was shaking from head to foot, the lantern swayed in my hand, but I believe my voice was fairly steady when I spoke.
"I am not 'tearing around,' gentlemen, I am searching for my husband. He was here. He is not here now. They have carried him off. There is another door— they must have gone that way. Pray don't stop me"
— for one of them had taken hold of my arm— "let me go after them. I must find him!"
My rescuers were none other than the young Americans who had behaved in so ungentlemanly a manner at the hotel. They had been in the carriage that had passed us. Falling into the ditch must have sobered them, for they were quick to understand and respond to my plea, and very kind, in their peculiar American fashion. Two of them immediately went off to follow the trail of the kidnappers and another insisted I return to the carriage.
"You can't go running around the fields dressed like that, ma'am," he said, when I would have resisted. "Leave it to Pat and Mike, they're as good as coon hounds on a trail. How about a nip of brandy? For medicinal purposes, you know."
Perhaps it was the brandy that cleared my head. I prefer to believe it was the resurgence of my indomitable will. Though every nerve in my body ached to join the search, I saw the strength of his argument, and it then occurred to me that there was better help close at hand. One of the young men— there were five of them in all— agreed to go to the house of Abdullah's uncle and tell our reis what had transpired. It was not long, though it seemed an interminable interlude to me, before Abdullah and Daoud were with me. I came perilously close to breaking down when I saw Abdullah's familiar face, distorted by worry and disbelief, Emerson had seemed to him like a god, immune to ordinary danger.
Assisted by the young Americans and a posse of their relatives, Abdullah and Daoud searched the fields and the nearby houses, ignoring the (legitimate) complaints of their occupants. But too much time had passed. He had been carried off and by now could be miles away The dusty road kept its secret, too much traffic had passed along it.
Dawn was pale in the sky before I could be persuaded to return to the Castle. The driver had only been struck unconscious, restored by brandy and baksheesh, he turned the horse and the carnage. Daoud and the cat went with me. Abdullah would not leave the spot. I believe I had the courtesy to thank the Americans. It was not entirely their fault if they regarded the business as an exciting adventure.

*  *  *

I find it difficult to recall my sensations during the succeeding days Events stand out in my memory sharp and clear as detailed engravings, but it was as if I were enveloped by a shell of clear cold ice that impeded neither vision nor touch nor hearing, but through which nothing could penetrate.
When the news of Emerson's disappearance became known, I was overwhelmed with offers of assistance. This should have touched me. It did not, nothing could touch me then. I wanted action, not sympathy The local authorities were hustled and badgered into a show of efficiency uncommon to them,- they arrested and questioned every man in Luxor who had cause to hold a grudge against my husband. The list was fairly extensive. At one time half the population of Gurnah, whose inhabitants resented Emerson's war against their tomb-robbing habits, were in the local prison. Hearing of this from Abdullah (several of whose distant kin were among the prisoners), I was able to bring about their release Abdullah had his own methods of dealing with the men of Gurnah, and I knew Emerson would himself have interfered to forbid the kinds of interrogation the local police employed. Beating the soles of the feet with splintered reeds was a favorite method.
Our friends rallied around. Howard Carter visited me almost daily Despite the differences of opinion that had often marked his relationship with Emerson, Neville was the first to offer his crew to help in the search. Telegrams arrived from Cairo, and from Cairo came, in person, Cyrus Vandergelt. He had abandoned his beloved dahabeeyah, he had not even waited for the regular train. Ordering a special, he had set out as soon as it was ready, leaving his luggage behind, and his first words to me were words of comfort and reassurance
"Don't you fret, Mrs. Amelia. We'll get him back if we have to tear this two-bit town apart. Some good old American know-how is what is wanted here, and Cyrus Vandergelt, U.S.A., is the man to supply it!"
The years had been kind to my friend. There might be a few more silver threads in his hair and goatee, but their sun-bleached fairness looked just the same. His stride was as athletic and vigorous, the clasp of his hand as strong, and his wits as keen as ever. He brought to our problem a cynical intelligence and a knowledge of the world no one had been able to supply When, in answer to his questions, I described the imprisonment of the Gurnah thieves, he shook his head impatiently.
"Sure, I know those Curnah crooks detest my old pal, but this isn't their style. They're more inclined to throw knives or rocks. This smacks of something more sinister. What have you and the professor been
up to lately, Mrs. Amelia? Or has that young rascal Ramses pulled another shady deal?"
I was tempted to tell him what I suspected, but I did not dare. I cleared Ramses, as was only proper,
but replied that I could not explain the event.
Cyrus was too shrewd to accept this— or perhaps he knew me so well he sensed my hesitation. He was also too much of a gentleman to question my word. "Well, I'll tell you what I think. He isn't dead. They'd have found the ... er ... found him by now. This has got to be a question of ransom. Why else would they hold him prisoner?"
"There are other reasons," I replied, repressing a shudder. "Now put that out of your head, Mrs. Amelia. Money is a lot more powerful incentive than revenge. I'll bet you you'll get a ransom note. If you don't, why, we'll offer a reward."
It was something to do, at least. The following day every tree and wall in Luxor bore the hastily printed placards. For reasons of my own which I could not explain to Cyrus, I did not expect results, and indeed, the message that arrived that evening was only indirectly related, if at all, to the offer.
It was carried by a ragged fellah, whose willingness to be detained supported his claim of innocence. He was a messenger only, the man who had given him the letter, with a modest tip and an assurance of greater reward upon delivery, had been a stranger to him. Few people are good observers, but it seemed evident from the messenger's confused description that there had been nothing distinctive about the
man's dress or appearance.
We sent the messenger away with promises of untold riches if he was able to supply any further information. I thought he was honest. But if he was not, we were more likely to win him over by bribes than by punishment.
Cyrus and I had been in the library. After the messenger had gone, I sat turning the letter over and over
in my hands. It was addressed to me, in large printed letters. The envelope bore the name of one of the
Luxor hotels.
"If you would like to be alone when you read it . . ." Cyrus began. He had asked my permission to
smoke and held one of his long thin cheroots.
"That is not why I hesitate," I admitted. "I am afraid to open it, Cyrus. It is the first ray of hope I have beheld. If it proves false . . . But such cowardice does not become me."
With a firm hand I reached for a letter opener.
I read through the letter twice. Cyrus held his tongue, the effort must have been difficult, for when I looked at him he was leaning forward, his face drawn with suspense. Silently I handed him the letter.
I might have given it to an individual I trusted less than I did my old friend without fear of betraying the deadly secret. It was the most suavely villainous, discreetly threatening epistle I have ever read. I felt contaminated by the mere touch of the paper.

Your husband is disinclined to confide in us [it began], He claims his memory is faulty. It
seems incredible that a man could forget so remarkable a journey in so short a period of time,
but recent experiences may well have had an adverse effect upon his mind as well as his body.
I do not doubt your recollection is more accurate, and that you would be more than pleased to share it with us, in writing or in person. I will be sitting on the terrace of the Winter Palace
Hotel tomorrow evening at five, in the hope that you will join me for an aperitif. Let me add only that, as one of your greatest admirers, I would be gravely disappointed if you sent a substitute.

Cyrus flung the paper to the floor. "Amelia," he cried in poignant accents. "You aren't going, are you? You wouldn't be such a blamed fool?"
"Why, Cyrus!" I exclaimed.
My friend shook out an enormous snowy-white linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "Pardon me. I took a liberty."
"By using my first name? Dear Cyrus, no one is better entitled than you. You have been a pillar of strength."
"No, but see here," Cyrus insisted. "You're as smart at reading between the lines as I am. I don't know what it is this dirty yellow dog wants, but sure as shooting he isn't going to exchange poor old Emerson for anything in writing. How'd he know you were telling the truth? This is just a trick to get ahold of you. Emerson's a tough nut and stubborner than any mule. You couldn't get him to talk if you stuck his feet in the fire or pulled out his . . . Oh, shucks, honey, I'm sorry. They aren't going to do anything like that, they know it wouldn't work. But if they had you in their filthy hands, he'd spill the beans all right."
"As would I, rather than be forced to watch while they ..." I could not complete the sentence.
"You've got the idea. This ugly cuss needs both of you. That was a cute stunt of Emerson's, pretending
to have amnesia, but it won't hold up for five seconds after he sets eyes on you. You can't take the chance, Amelia. It's for Emerson's sake as well as yours, they won't damage him permanently so long
as you're on the loose"
"I realize that, my dear Cyrus. But how can I not go? It is our first, our only lead. You noted that the— dirty yellow dog seems a fitting description— that he gave no clue as to how I might identify him. That implies that he is someone I know."
Cyrus slapped his knee. "I've said it before and I'll say it again— you're the sharpest little lady of my acquaintance. But we've got to give this a lot of thought, Amelia. If I were running this scam, I wouldn't be at the Winter Palace. I'd have some innocent bystander pass you a note instructing you to go someplace else— someplace not so safe. You'd do it, too. Wouldn't you?"
I could not, did not, deny it. "But," I argued, "if I were accompanied— not by you, Cyrus, you are too recognizable— but by Abdullah and his friends— "
"Abdullah is as easily recognizable as I am. And be sure, my dear, that you would be led on and on by one means or another until you were beyond the reach of friends."
I bowed my head. I don't believe I had ever felt such ah agonizing sense of helplessness By risking capture I would endanger not only myself but Emerson. Our unknown enemy would have no recourse but to murder us once we had told him what he wanted to know. Only by remaining free could I preserve a life dearer to me than my own And the loathsome letter had given me that much comfort at least He lived. Cyrus's voice broke in on my painful thoughts. "I haven't asked for your confidence, Amelia, and
I won't. But if you could tell me what it is this devil wants, I might be able to come up with an idea."
I shook my head. "It would not help, and it might endanger you as well. Only two other people . . ."
It was like a hammer smashing through the shell of frozen calm that had enclosed me. My only excuse
is that I had been so absorbed with Emerson I had neglected other, if lesser, responsibilies. They now came crashing in upon me. With a shriek that echoed among the rafters, I leapt to my feet.
"Ramses! And Nefret! Oh, heaven, what I have I done— or, to be more accurate, neglected to do? A telegram! Cyrus, I must send a telegram at once!"
I was rushing toward the door when Cyrus caught me up. Taking me by the shoulders, he strove to restrain me. "Don't go riding off in all directions! You shall send your telegram, sit down, compose it, while I find a man to take it over to Luxor." Leading me to the desk, he thrust pen and paper into my hands.
Desperation and remorse gave me the strength to write. When Cyrus returned I had finished the message. I handed it to him. Without looking at the paper he took it to the servant waiting at the door.
"It will be in London tomorrow," he said, returning.
"If it traveled on the wings of the wind, it could not arrive too soon for me," I cried. "How could I have failed to realize . . . But it was not until now that I knew for certain "
"I prescribe a little brandy," Cyrus said.
"I believe ..." I had to stop to collect myself before I went on. "I believe I would prefer a whiskey and soda, please."
When Cyrus brought it to me, he dropped onto one knee like a medieval page serving his master.
"You're not only the sharpest little lady I know, but the coolest and bravest," he said gently. "Don't give way now. I reckon I've an idea now what this is all about. You and Emerson, young Ramses and the girl— Willy Perth's daughter, isn't she? Uh-huh. Say no more, Mrs. Amelia, my dear And don't worry about the kiddies. If half of what I've heard about that son of yours is true, he can take care of himself— and the girl too."
I always say there is nothing like a whiskey and soda to calm the nerves. After a few sips I was able to speak more composedly. "What a comfort you are, Cyrus No doubt you are right. All the same, I don't know how I am going to endure the suspense until I hear from them. It will take at least three days to
get a reply."
But a benevolent Providence spared me that suspense. No doubt It felt I had quite enough to bear already When Cyrus's servant returned from Luxor he carried another telegram with him. I had already retired to my rooms, but I was not asleep. Cyrus himself brought the message to my door. How long it had been sitting in the telegraph office I never determined, Egyptians do not share our Western concern about haste. It was addressed to Emerson, but I did not let that deter me from opening it, for I had seen
whence it came.
"Warning received and acted upon," Walter had written. "All is well. Guard yourselves. Letter follows. Guard yourselves."
I handed it to Cyrus. He had refused the chair I offered him and stood by the door, hands behind his back, looking extremely uncomfortable. What Puritans these Americans are, I thought in amusement. Only affectionate concern could have brought him to the room of an unchaperoned married lady after nightfall. And I in deshabille, too! I had snatched up the first garment that came to hand when I heard
his knock, it was a particularly frivolous, ruffled, beribboned, lace-trimmed peignoir of yellow silk.
The message made Cyrus forget the ruffles and ribbons. "Thank heaven," he said sincerely. "That relieves one source of anxiety. 'All is well,' he says."
"Evidently I am more skilled at reading between the lines than you, Cyrus. Why does he repeat
'Guard yourselves?' Something must have happened."
"Now that is just your mother's anxiety, my dear. You don't know what Emerson said in his message.
He must have sent a telegram to his brother some days ago, warning him of danger."
"Apparently that is the case. He did not tell me he had done so, no doubt he supposed I would jeer at his concern, as I did on the occasions when he tried to convince me of our peril. How cruelly Heaven has punished me for failing to heed him!" Cyrus's eyes followed me as I paced back and forth, the skirts of my robe swirling around me. "I will take what comfort I can from Walter's reassurance," I went on. "There is nothing more I can do."
"Get some sleep," Cyrus said kindly. "And don't worry. I will do whatever I can to serve you."
But it was not he who served me best.
Needless to say, I did not sleep. I lay awake as I had done every night since it happened— not tossing
and turning, for that is an exhibition of weakness I do not allow myself— but trying to discover a possible course of action. At least this night I had new information to consider I went over and over every word, every phrase, every comma, even, in that malevolent missive. Every word and every phrase contained
sly threats all the more terrifying for being left to the imagination of the reader. (Especially an imagination as active as mine.) The man who had composed them must be a veritable fiend.
And an arrogant fiend. He had not even bothered to conceal his nationality, his English was as good, his syntax as elegant, as my own. I felt confident he was not a guest at the hotel. Anyone could have
stolen stationery from the writing room. As for his aim in proposing a rendezvous . . . Well, Cyrus's reasoning was irrefutable. It agreed with my own. Even if I were cad enough to break my word and betray a helpless people in exchange for my husband's life . . .
But, oh, Reader! You know little of the human heart if you suppose that honor is stronger than affection or that cool reason can overcome loving fear. If the villain had stood before me at that moment with one hand outstretched and the other holding the key to Emerson's prison, I would have thrown myself at his feet and begged him to take what he wanted.
Emerson's suspicions had been logical but unsubstantiated. The letter had turned them from surmise into certainty. It was the location of the Lost Oasis the fiend was after. But what, precisely, would satisfy his demands?
A map? THE map? Either he knew it existed, or he had deduced that it must. The journey we had made led into the waterless, featureless desert, and only a madman would set out unless he had precise directions The dirty yellow dog must know we had followed a map of some kind.
To the best of my knowledge, only one copy was still in existence. There had been five to begin with,
and to complicate the matter still further, two of the five had been deliberately, fatally inaccurate I had destroyed mine— one of the false maps Ramses's copy, the one we had used to reach the oasis, had
been lost or mislaid during our rather precipitate departure from the place. Emerson's copy had disappeared even before we left Nubia. That left two, one accurate, one false.
The other false copy had belonged to Reggie Forthright. He had left it with me when he set off on his expedition into the desert, and, as he had requested, I had passed it on to the military authorities, together with his last will and testament, before we went into the desert. Presumably these documents had been sent to his sole heir, his grandfather, when he failed to return. This copy of the map did not concern me, for it would only have led the one who followed it to a very dry, prolonged, and unpleasant death.
The original copy of the map had been in the possession of Lord Blacktower, Reggie's grandfather It
was now in Emerson's strongbox in the library at Amarna House. Blacktower had given it up, along with the guardianship of Nefret, at Emerson's emphatic request. I had urged that it be destroyed, but Emerson had overruled me. One never knew, he had said. There might come a time, he had said . .
Had it come? For the second and, I am happy to say, last time, my integrity wavered under the impact
of overpowering affection. I had to bite down hard on the linen pillowcase before reason again prevailed.
I could not trust the honor of a man who clearly had none. Nor would he trust mine. He could not afford to release his hostage until he was certain the information I had given him was accurate—and how
could he know that until he had made the journey and returned? I could not have retraced our route or remembered the compass readings, but I did not doubt that Emerson could. He had held the compass
and followed the directions. The villain did not need a map if he could force Emerson to speak.
No, the rendezvous was a ruse. Our only hope was to find Emerson and free him before . . .
Where could he be? Somewhere in the vicinity of Luxor still, I felt sure. The search had been intensive and was proceeding, but it could not penetrate into every room in every house, especially the houses of foreign residents. Egypt enjoyed the blessings of British law, which proclaims that a man's home is his castle. A noble ideal, and one with which I thoroughly agree— in principle. Noble ideals are often inconvenient. I well remembered the story of how Wallis Budge had smuggled his boxes of illegal antiquities away while the police waited outside his house, unable to enter until the warrant arrived from Cairo We needed a warrant, and for that we must have grounds. That was what my devoted friends
were trying to obtain— talking with their informants in the villages, following up gossip about strangers
in the city, investigating rumors of unusual activity— and I pinned my hopes on their endeavors.
I had especially counted on Abdullah and his influence with the men of Gurnah, who were reputed to know every secret in Luxor, but as I lay sleepless in the dark, I had to confess I was sorely disappointed in him. I had seen very little of him in the past few days. I knew one reason why he avoided the house, he looked like a white-bearded, turbaned John Knox when he saw me and Cyrus together. Not that Abdullah would have insulted me by supposing I had the least interest in another man. He was jealous of Cyrus on his own account, resenting anyone who wanted to assist me and Emerson in the slightest way, and resenting Cyrus all the more because his own efforts had proved futile. Poor Abdullah. He was old, and this had been a terrible blow to him. I doubted he would ever fully recover.
God forgive me for such doubts. For it was Abdullah who served me best.
Cyrus and I were seated at luncheon next day, discussing how we should deal with the matter of the proposed rendezvous, when one of the servants entered and said that Abdullah wanted to speak with me.
"Have him come in," I said.
The servant looked scandalized. Servants, I have found, are greater snobs than their masters. I repeated the order,- with a shrug the man went out and then returned to report Abdullah would not come in. He wished to speak to me in private
"I can't imagine what he has to say that he could not say in front of you," I said, rising.
Cyrus smiled. "He wants to be your sole prop and defender, my dear. Such loyalty is touching, but blamed aggravating. Go ahead."
Abullah was waiting in the hall, exchanging sour glances— and I think low-voiced insults— with the doorkeeper. He would not speak until I had followed him out onto the veranda.
When he turned to face me, I caught my breath. His sour frown had vanished, to be replaced by a
glow of pride and joy that made him look half his age.
"I have found him, Sitt," he said.