The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (22 page)

Shortly after we entered it the valley curved, cutting off our view of the plain and the cultivation beyond. After approximately three miles the rocky sides closed in and smaller wadis opened up on either side. Emerson had already disappeared,- following, we saw him trotting along one of the narrow side canyons, whose floor rose as it proceeded to the northeast.
"There it is," I said, in a voice pent with emotion. "Ahead and to the left."
Soon the others saw it too—a dark opening framed by masonry, above a scree of tumbled rock. Charlie groaned. His clean-shaven countenance already showed signs of what promised to be a painful sunburn. Even a hat cannot entirely protect those of fair complexion from the effects of Egypt's burning solar orb.
When we had climbed to the ledge in front of the tomb, Emerson was there, glowering at the iron gate that barred entry. "We will certainly need this key," he said to Cyrus. "Make sure I have it tomorrow
morning."
By the time Emerson announced we were finished for the day, I was as much in the dark about his intentions as was Cyrus. He had scrambled around the foot of the cliffs to the north and south of the royal tomb for over an hour, poking into holes like a ferret after a rat.
"Where are we going?" Cyrus asked, as we trudged wearily back along the rock-strewn path. "See here, Emerson, there's no earthly reason why we can't spend the night on the dahabeeyah."
"I never said there was," said Emerson, with an air of innocent astonishment that left Cyrus gnashing
his teeth.
When we reached the gangplank I saw that Anubis was waiting for us. Where he had been or how he
had spent his time I could not imagine, but when we approached he rose, stretched, yawned, and accompanied us onto the boat.
"We will meet in the saloon in half an hour," said Emerson, heading for his room. The cat followed him.
I heard him say "Nice kitty," as he stumbled over it.
I had barely time to bathe and change in the time he had arbitrarily allotted, but I managed it, hastily selecting a garment that required no prolonged process of hooking up, and no assistance with regard to buttons. (I cannot imagine how women lacking husbands or personal maids ever manage to get dressed. Gowns that fasten up the back are impossible except for a contortionist.)
Emerson was already there, brooding over a heap of papers and plans spread across the table. His eyebrows lifted when he saw my pink flounces and ruffles (the garment to which I have referred was
a tea gown), but he made no comment, and only grunted when I ordered the steward to serve tea.
I was pouring when Cyrus came in, followed closely by the two young men. Apparently they felt there was safety in numbers. Poor Charlie was as red as an English brick, and Rene's mouth repeated the downward droop of his mustache.
Emerson sat tapping his fingers on the table and looking pointedly patient while I dispensed the genial beverage. Then he said, "If the cursed social amenities are concluded to your satisfaction, MISS
Peabody, I would like to get on with it."
"Nothing has prevented you from doing so," I said mildly. "Take this to Professor Emerson, Rene,
will you please?"
"I don't want any damned tea," said Emerson, taking the cup. "I thought you were all burning to know where we are going to excavate."
"You told us," Cyrus said, while Emerson sipped his tea. "The stelae— "
"No, no, they won't occupy us for the entire season," Emerson interrupted. "You American dilettantes
are always after royal tombs. What do you say to the tomb of Nefertiti?"

CHAPTER 9
"Martyrdom is often the result of excessive gullibility."

Emerson enjoys making dramatic announcements. I fear the results of this one disappointed him. Instead of expressions of rapturous enthusiasm or scornful disbelief (he is quite happy with either), he got only a skeptical grunt from Cyrus The two young men were afraid to commit themselves by speaking at all, and I raised my eyebrows and remarked, "She was buried in the royal tomb, with her husband and child."
Emerson had finished his tea. He held out his cup to be refilled and girded himself for the kind of battle
he much enjoys and in which (I must confess) he generally triumphs.
"Fragments of his sarcophagus have been found, none that might have been hers. If Nefertiti died before her husband—"
"No one knows when she died," I said. "If she survived into the reign of Tutankhamon, she may have gone with him to Thebes and been buried— "
"Yes, yes," Emerson said impatiently. "All that is idle speculation. But it was you who informed me that in recent years objects bearing her name have appeared on the antiquities market, and that there are rumors of fellahin carrying a golden coffin across the high desert behind the royal valley."
(It was Charlie who had informed him, actually, hoping to distract him from the evening inquisition by relating archaeological gossip. The distraction had not succeeded.)
"There are rumors like that about every site in Egypt," said Cyrus— but though his tone dismissed the story, the light in his eyes indicated his rising interest. To a man of Cyrus's romantic temperament there could be no more thrilling discovery than the last resting place of the heretic pharaoh's exquisite queen.
"Certainly," said Emerson. "And I put no great faith in the golden coffin. Such a unique object could
not have been marketed without leaving signs of its passage through the dirty world of dealers and collectors. Note, however, the significant word 'gold.' Any artifact made of or covered with gold could start the gossip mills grinding and lead to the usual exaggeration that distinguishes their operation. The appearance of inscribed objects on the antiquities market is even more significant. That, if you recall,
was how Maspero got onto the cache of royal mummies in 1883. The Gurnawis who had found the hiding place began marketing objects from it, the names on those objects indicated they must have
come from a tomb unknown to archaeologists."
"Yes, but— " I began.
"But me no buts, MISS Peabody. There are other tombs in the royal wadi. I have known of some of them for years, and I feel certain there are others. The royal tomb itself has not been properly explored, are there passages and chambers as yet undiscovered? Certain of the existing ones seem strangely incomplete. Curse it, Akhenaton had thirteen years after his arrival at Amarna in which to prepare a
tomb. It would have been one of his first acts. The boundary stelae mention his intention of doing so— "
"Those same inscriptions suggest that the queen shared his tomb," I interrupted." There shall be made
for me a tomb in the eastern mountain; my burial shall be therein . . . and the burial of the Great Royal Wife Nefertiti shall be therein— '"
"Ah, but does 'in it' refer to the tomb itself or to the eastern mountain?" Emerson leaned forward, his
eyes glittering with the joy of argument— or, I should say, learned debate. "He goes on to say, 'If she (Nefertiti, that is) shall die in any town north, south, west or east, she shall be brought and buried in Akhetaton.' He does not say 'in my tomb in Akhetaton— '"
"There was no need for him to say it, given the context. He meant— "
"Will you two stop that?" Cyrus demanded. His goatee quivered with the muscular contractions of his jaws and chin. "The man's been dead for over three thousand years, and anyhow, his original intentions don't mean a curse. What I want to know is, where are those other tombs you were talking about, and why the— er— dickens haven't you excavated them?"
"You know my methods, Vandergelt," said Emerson. "Or at least you claim to. I never excavate unless
I can finish the job without delay. Opening a site or a tomb invites the attentions of thieves, or of other archaeologists, who are almost as destructive. I have knowledge of or strong suspicions about at least
six other sites . . ."
He let the words trail off. Then he said deliberately, "We will excuse you, Charles and Rene. No doubt you want to freshen up before dinner."
Two men cannot constitute a stampede, but they tried.
Emerson had reached for his pipe and was spilling tobacco all over his papers. As soon as the door  closed he said, "I trust you have no objection to my dismissing your employees, Vandergelt?"
"It wouldn't do a whoop of good if I did object," said Cyrus. "But I think I see where you're heading,
and the less those two innocents know about the other business, the better. Are you suggesting Vincey was trying to pick your brain about those unknown tombs?"
"Nonsense," I exclaimed. "We know exactly what Vincey wants, and it has nothing to do with— "
"May I remind you," said Emerson, in the growling purr that usually heralded a particularly devastating remark, "that it was I the gentleman questioned, not you."
"You need not remind me, since I was the first to observe the results of his questioning," I snapped.
"But may I remind you that you have not seen fit to confide the details to me or to Cyrus. What the
devil did he ask you?"
"My state of mind was a trifle confused," said Emerson, with one of those infuriating volte-faces men employ to avoid a direct answer. "The details elude me."
"Oh, really!" I exclaimed. "Now see here, Emerson— "
"Don't waste your time, my dear," said Cyrus, as Emerson grinned at me in a particularly trying fashion. "Can we get back to the question of the tombs in the royal wadi? I take it that is your real goal this season. So what's the point of messing around with that brickwork in the hollow?"
Emerson opened his eyes very wide. "Why, I intend to do both, of course. And copy the boundary
stelae. We'll start in the hollow, as I said." He rose, stretching like a great cat. "I must change for dinner.
I trust, MISS Peabody, that you intend to do the same, that garment seems more suitable to the boudoir than the dinner table. The proprieties must be observed, you know."
After he had gone, Cyrus and I stared silently at one another. His craggy face was soft with the sympathy he dared not express aloud, and since I felt no desire for sympathy I did not invite him to express it.
"Curse the man," I said pleasantly. "You know what he is up to, I suppose."
"Oh, yes. Emerson's mind is an open book to me. His memory may be flawed, but his essential
character is unaltered."
"What are you going to do about it?"
"As is my habit whenever possible, I am going to follow the advice set forth in Scripture. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof is, in my opinion, one of the wisest statements in that wonderful Book. I will deal with Emerson's lunatic scheme when he tries to put it into effect. Who knows what may transpire before that time? And now, if you will excuse me— "
"Are you going to change?" Cyrus asked.
I smiled. "Certainly not."

*  *  *

I had left our uninvited guest to herself, since she had intimated that she did not find my company desirable. So far as I was aware, she had not emerged from her room. Her meals were carried to her
and Cyrus insisted that her door be locked at night. That evening I decided that a serious discussion with the young woman could not be postponed any longer. I had hoped Emerson would want to question her, but to the best of my knowledge he had not done so. His intent was clear to me now. I had suspected from the moment he expressed it that his proclaimed intention of ignoring Vincey unless the latter again attempted to interfere with him was a flat-out lie. "If he turns up, I'll settle the fellow," indeed! He expected Vincey would "turn up", he fully intended to "settle the fellow," and in order to hasten the confrontation he meant to leave the safety of the dahabeeyah and station himself somewhere in the desert, like a tethered goat staked out as a lure for a tiger, in the hope Vincey would initiate another assault. It was also clear to me that Emerson was still skeptical about the Lost Oasis. (I had to admit I would have doubted the story myself if I had not actually been there.) Hence his references to hidden tombs and Nefertiti's treasures. He would employ any means possible to intrigue an enemy and encourage him to attack. He meant to go his solitary, stubborn way without consulting the rest of us or taking us into his confidence. It left me with no choice but to do the same, and since I was cognizant of facts Emerson did not know and would not have admitted if he had, the burden was as usual on my shoulders.
Bertha was sitting by the open window. The cool night breeze stirred the muslin curtains. A single lamp burned by the bed. In its light I saw that she was wearing one of the robes I had purchased at a village bazaar. It was black— only young unmarried girls wore colors— but unlike her original garment it was clean and unworn. She looked like a giant crow huddling against an approaching storm, and as she
turned toward me I saw her lower her hand from her face. The veil was in place.
"Why do you feel it necessary to hide your face from me?" I asked, seating myself in the chair next to hers.
"It is not a pretty sight."
"Still? The swelling should have gone down by now.  Let me have a look."
"I do not need your medicine, Sitt Hakim. Only time— if you will allow me that."
"For your face to heal, yes. For other things— no. Not while the life of the Father of Curses is still in danger."
"And yours, Sitt Hakim." There was a strange note in her voice, as if she smiled as she spoke.
"Yes, I suppose so. Bertha"— I still stumbled over that inappropriate name— "we have left you in
peace, to rest and recover your health. Now it is time for you to prove yourself. Mr. Vandergelt believes you were sent here to spy on us."
"I swear to you— "
"My dear girl, you are not speaking to some gullible man, but to another woman. I have excellent
reasons, unknown to Mr. Vandergelt, for believing in your good intentions but for your own sake as
well as ours you must give me more active assistance."
"What do you want, then? I have told you all I know."
"You have told me nothing. I want dates, names, addresses, facts. We have learned— no thanks to you!— the identity of the man who was your master and your tormentor. Do you know him by his true name of Vincey, or only as Schlange, the name he used in Luxor? Were you in Cairo with him? When
did he leave for Luxor? Where did he go after he was driven from the villa? Where is he now?"
I had brought pencil and notepaper. From the way she responded to my questions, I had the impression she was no stranger to official interrogation, but she answered me readily enough. Those answers confirmed what I already suspected, but were of little use in planning future strategy.
"Does a hammer driving nails into a piece of wood know the plan of the house?" she asked bitterly. "I was not good enough to share his apartment in Cairo. He called himself Schlange there too, I know him by no other name. He came to my house when he wanted ... In Luxor I lived at the villa, it is true. No one knew him there, his reputation was not damaged by my presence, and he needed me to help him break the Father of Curses. After I left you that night I went to my room,  I was packing my clothes
when he came, and forced me to go with him. I had to leave everything, my jewelry, my money! We stayed for a week in a cheap hotel in Luxor, when he left it, which was seldom, he locked me in the room. I could not go out, I had nothing to wear but the clothes that were like yours, and I dared not appear in them on the streets of Luxor."
"A week, you said. But your bruises were fresh when you came to us. He did not abuse you at first?"
The veil quivered, as if her lips writhed under it. "No more than usual. He was waiting, I think, to see whether the Professor would recover, and to learn what you meant to do next. One day, when he returned, he brought the robe you saw me wearing and told me to put it on. We would go that night— "
"Where?"
"Does a man who carries a piece of luggage inform it of its destination? He was very angry. He had learned something— no, don't ask me what, how would I know?— something that drove him wild. He uttered only vile curses and threats, and complaints about those who had failed him. They, whoever
they may have been, were not there. I was there. So . . ."
"Yes, I see." The news that had driven Vincey to violence must have been the failure of his people in England to kidnap Ramses and Nefret. Ramses's letter had reached me at about that time. "How did
you get away from him?" I asked.
"He slept heavily that night," she said. "And the garments he had brought were the very disguise I would have chosen. Veiled and in black I looked like any woman of Luxor. He thought I would never have the will or the courage to leave him, but fear, when it reaches a certain point, can inspire courage. I knew
that night what I had been unwilling to admit before: that one day he would kill me, out of rage or suspicion of betrayal."
She had spoken with a passion and seeming candor that could not fail to move a sympathetic hearer.
The story made sense, too, as far as it went. I waited for a moment to allow her to calm herself, for
her voice had grown hoarse and tremulous with remembered terror.
"You do not appear to be in a position to betray very much," I said. "You don't know where he intended to go, or what he intended to do. You cannot describe any of his friends or associates?"
"Only the men he hired in Luxor. They could not betray him either, they never knew his real name,
only the one he used when he rented the villa."
"Schlange," I murmured. "I wonder why . . Well. Is that all you can tell me, then?"
She nodded vehemently. "Do you believe me? You will not abandon me, unprotected and alone?"
"You don't mean to insult me, I suppose," I said calmly. "But if you imagine I would betray even an enemy to death or torture, you cannot be familiar with the moral code that guides a Briton. The beautiful tenets of the Christian faith require that we forgive our enemies. To that creed we all adhere ... At least,"
I amended, remembering Emerson's unorthodox views on the subject of organized religion, "most of us do."
"You are right," she murmured, bowing her head submissively. "He would not abandon me."
I knew to whom she referred. "None of us would," I said somewhat sharply. "But we face a difficulty. Tomorrow we begin our excavations and for long hours, perhaps for days at a time, we will be away
from the dahabeeyah. Are you afraid to stay here alone, with only the crew?"
She indicated, with considerable vehemence, that she was. "He is here, I know it! I have seen shadows moving in the night . . ."
"In your head, you mean. Our guards have seen nothing out of the way. Well, I suppose you will have
to come with us. Though heaven knows what I am going to do with you."

*  *  *

In fact, when we left the boat the following morning she blended in quite well with the interested villagers who gathered around our little group. There were women among them, I would not have been able to distinguish her from the other black-robed figures had she not stayed close to me. I had expected she would dog Emerson's heels, but she did not, perhaps because she would have had to contend with the
cat for that position.
Our entourage followed us as we passed through the village. Some of them hoped to be employed on the dig, others were drawn by idle curiosity. The people of Haggi Qandil had become more accustomed to visitors since the days when we had first worked there, for many of the tourist steamers stopped on their way upriver, but life in these small settlements is extremely dull, any new face, especially that of a foreigner, attracts a crowd. How these people had changed since our first visit! Fair dealing and kindly treatment had converted a once sullen population into ardent supporters, smiles and waves and Arabic greetings— and the conventional demands for baksheesh— followed us along the way. Even the lean, abused dogs slunk along behind at a safe distance,- they had learned that visitors sometimes threw scraps of food to them. I always made a habit of doing so.
A number of men and children continued to follow as we left the village and headed for the cliffs. Emerson led the way as usual. The morning was pleasantly cool and he was still wearing his tweed jacket. I observed with a start of surprise that he had taken the cat up on his shoulder. Ramses had trained the cat Bastet to do the same, but owing to the meager dimensions of that portion of Ramses's anatomy Bastet had to drape herself around his neck. Emerson's frame suffered no such disadvantage,- Anubis sat bolt upright, leaning slightly forward like the figurehead on a ship. I must say they presented an extremely odd appearance, and I wondered how Emerson had won the animal's confidence to such an extent.
Emerson glanced back at the ragtag, cheerful straggle of people and called to Abdullah, "We shan't want diggers and basket children till tomorrow or the next day. Tell them to go back,- we will let them know when we intend to begin hiring."
"I am hiring today," said Cyrus, strolling along with his hands in his pockets.
Emerson slowed his steps and allowed Cyrus to catch him up. They made an amusing contrast, Cyrus in his immaculate white linen suit and solar topi, his lean cheeks closely shaved and his goatee as precisely barbered as the artificial beards worn by Egyptian pharaohs, Emerson in creased coat and trousers, his shirt open at the neck, his boots scuffed and dusty, his uncovered black head shining in the sunlight. The cat was much better groomed
"May I inquire whom you are hiring, and for what purpose?" Emerson inquired politely.
"Allow me to surprise you," Cyrus replied with equal politeness.
As soon as we arrived at the site, Cyrus took his recruits aside and began lecturing them in ungrammatical but effective Arabic. It was not long before the results became apparent. Construction is quick and easy in Egypt, where the most common building material is mud, formed into sun-dried bricks or used as mortar over a foundation of reeds. The architectural techniques are equally simple, and have been employed since time immemorial. It does not require complex equipment to design a square flat-roofed house with
a door and a few ventilation slits high up under the eaves. Wide windows are not an advantage in that climate, they admit heat rather than air, and allow the entrance of creatures with whom one would not care to share living quarters.
Emerson ostentatiously ignored the furious activity going on a short distance away, busying himself with
a preliminary survey and plan of the area, nor did he refer to it immediately when we stopped for a spot of lunch. Accepting a plate from Bertha, who had appointed herself cook's helper, he spoke to her for
the first time that day.
"Sit down and eat. Who told you to wait on us?"
"It was her own idea," I said, knowing full well whom he suspected of having given the order. "And I agree with her, that under the present circumstances anonymity is to be preferred to the equality of
station I would otherwise insist upon."
"Hmph," said Emerson. Taking this for what it was—a tacit admission of the wisdom of my decision— Bertha quietly withdrew.
Cyrus watched her retreating form with narrowed eyes. I had passed on to him the information, such as
it was, Bertha had given me the night before. Now he said, "I still don't trust the darned woman. I want her watched day and night. I want her inside four walls where nobody can get at her without making a racket."
"Ah, it is a prison you are building," Emerson said, gesturing toward the rising walls.
"Cut it out, Emerson, I'm getting tired of your sarcasm. These darned tents aren't my idea of a proper headquarters, canvas walls won't keep out scorpions or sand fleas, much less thieves. If you won't
spend the nights on the dahabeeyah— "
"Wherever did you get that idea?" Emerson asked.
"From you, you stubborn, bullheaded— "
"Language, Vandergelt! There are ladies present. You must have misunderstood me." He rose. "But go ahead and build your expedition house if you like. The rest of us have work to do. Charles— Rene— Abdullah— "
So we spent the next three nights on the dahabeeyah. Emerson's experienced eye had been right again,
the bricks in the hollow were the foundations of houses— one house, at least— for by the end of the
third day the men had uncovered most of it and found part of a thick enclosure wall that must have surrounded the entire area.
Evening social activities were negligible, the two young men were so exhausted they kept slumping forward onto the table during dinner, and sought their beds immediately thereafter. Cyrus avoided me, explaining ingenuously that Emerson had him in such a temper he could not speak civilly even to me. Emerson locked himself in his room and Bertha was locked into hers. I was, of course, perfectly fit and ready for any interesting activity that presented itself, so for me the evenings were extremely tedious—
not even an attempted burglary or armed attack to break the monotony.
I was therefore delighted when Cyrus joined me in the saloon on the third evening, looking very elegant
in the evening kit he always wore in my honor, and with an expression that suggested his mood had improved. "The mail-boy has just arrived from Derut," he announced, his srnile anticipating the pleasure he hoped to bestow upon me.
The thick packet he handed me did indeed bear the Chalfont crest. I hastened to open it, but I suspected my pleasure might not be entirely unalloyed.
There had been a frantic flurry of telegrams before we departed from Luxor. Unhappily, my message announcing Emerson's rescue did not arrive in England until after our dear ones had learned of his disappearance, and the first telegram I received from them was so agitated as to be virtually unintelligible. A second message announced the arrival of mine, expressed relief, and demanded further details. These
I supplied as best I could, given the limitations of the medium and the necessity for reticence. I knew perfectly well that the telegraph operators in Luxor were susceptible to bribery, and that the jackals of
the press were well aware of this deplorable habit— which is, however, only to be expected in a country whose inhabitants do not possess the advantages of British moral training, or a living wage.
I had promised to write, and had, of course, done so. However, I doubted my letter could have arrived
by this time, certainly it had not arrived in time to elicit a response from Ramses. He must have written this even before the dreadful news of his father's disappearance became known to him.
In this last assumption I was mistaken, as the date heading the letter proved. I looked up at Cyrus, who was still on his feet, unwilling to seat himself until I had invited him to do so, but fairly quivering with
the curiosity he was too courteous to express.
"Stay, dear friend," I said. "I have no secrets from you. But first tell me how this missive reached me so quickly. It is dated only eight days ago, and the mail boat takes eleven to reach Port Sa'id. Have you a genie in your employ, or have you hired an inventor to perfect one of those flying machines I have read about? For I know it must be to your good offices, in some manner or other, that I owe this— er— treat."
Cyrus looked embarrassed, as he always did when I praised him. "It must have come overland to Marseilles or Naples, the express takes one or two days, and a fast boat can reach Alexandria in another three. I asked a friend in Cairo to collect your mail the instant it arrived and send it off by the next train."
"And the mail-boy who travels to and from Derut is one of your servants? Dear Cyrus!"
"I'm as curious as you are," Cyrus said, blushing. "Even more so, I reckon, aren't you anxious to read it?"
"I am torn between anticipation and apprehension," I admitted. "Where Ramses's activities are concerned, the latter emotion tends to predominate, and this appears to be a long . . . Ah, but not so long as I had thought, Ramses has enclosed a batch of clippings from the London newspapers. Confound them!
'Famed Egyptologist Missing,  Feared Dead . . .' The Archaeological Community Mourns the Loss of Its Most Notorious . . .' Notorious! I am surprised at the
Times
, the
Mirror,
perhaps, or ... Oh, curse it! The Mirror describes me as hysterical with grief, under a doctor's care; the World has a sketch of the 'murder scene' complete with a huge pool of blood, the
Daily Yell
. . ." The papers drifted from my palsied hand. In a hollow voice I said, "The account in the
Daily Yell
was written by Kevin O'Connell. I cannot read
it, Cyrus, indeed I cannot, Kevin's journalistic style has often inspired me to homicidal fury. I shudder to think what he has written this time."
"Don't read it, then," said Cyrus, bending to collect the scattered papers. "Let's hear what your son has
to say."
"His literary style is not much of an improvement on Kevin's," I said gloomily.
In fact, the only part of the letter that calmed my nerves was the salutation.