Tomb of the Golden Bird (4 page)

eyes were not as keen as they once had been; I was the last to see the two tall forms coming with long strides along the road. "They are unharmed," Selim said, with a sigh of relief. "Ah, there you are," said Emerson, looking in. "Selim too? Excellent. Let us have some light, eh, and perhaps a refreshing drop of whiskey. We deserve it, I believe." "You weren't worried, were you?" Ramses asked, putting his arm round his wife. "Oh, not at all," she replied, and slipped away from him in order to help Fatima light the lamps. Ramses looked at her uncertainly, and then went into the house, returning with the drinks tray. "Everything all right here?" Emerson asked, settling himself in a comfortable chair and stretching his legs. "There is not a stranger within half a mile," Selim replied, stroking his beard. "We made certain of that. You had no trouble?" "Oh, not at all," I said, echoing Nefret. "Emerson, what have you done to your new boots? And the bottoms of your trousers are scorched. And—" "I'll tell you all about it if you will stop fussing, Peabody." He took the glass Ramses handed him, nodded his thanks, and launched into his tale. "No one was hurt," he finished. "And the damage was minimal. Not a bad night's work, take it all in all." "You let them get away," I said. Emerson gave me a reproachful look. "Now, Peabody, don't be critical. We couldn't go after the bastards until we were certain there was no danger to the place or its occupants." "I beg your pardon, Emerson," I said. "You are quite right. It's a pity you didn't recognize any of them. I wouldn't say it was a good night's work." "If you will forgive me," said my husband, with excessive politeness, "you are missing the point, Peabody. We learned something very important tonight. We now know what these fellows are after. Or should I say 'who'?" "You should say 'whom,' Emerson." No one spoke the name aloud, but we all knew whom he meant. Of all our acquaintances the one most likely to attract the attentions of unprincipled persons was Emerson's half brother Seth, better known by his nom de crime of Sethos. He had, before I reformed him, been in charge of a criminal network of antiquities thieves. He had assured me he had long since abandoned that profession, but he might not have been able to resist temptation if a prize fell in his way. Were the prize great enough, a rival might be after him. His current role as an agent of British intelligence might also have led him into danger. The secret service is part of a dark and murky underworld, whose occupants are not bound by the ordinary rules of society. Selim was one of the few who knew Sethos's identity and occupation. He had encountered Emerson's renegade brother under circumstances that made it impossible to conceal the truth from him, even if we had not had complete confidence in his discretion. His handsome features set in a thoughtful frown, he said, "So. What has he done to anger these people, and who are they?" "That is the matter in a nutshell, Selim," I agreed. "Unfortunately we don't know the answer to either question." "There is another question," said Selim, pleased at my compliment. "Why would they think he had come here?" "Now that is a point I had not considered," I admitted. "He has friends and bolt-holes all over the Middle East." "He wouldn't lead enemies to us," Nefret said. "Not unless he was desperate," Ramses muttered. Nefret gave him a quick look. "It seems to me," she snapped, "that this discussion is getting out of hand. It's all conjecture, including the assumption that he is the man these people are after." "It is the most reasonable assumption," Ramses said. He and his uncle had never got on. "Father is right, Nefret. Our encounter tonight made it clear these people are looking, not for an object, but for a man. Not one of us, nor one of our friends; their whereabouts are known. Who else could it be?" Nefret bowed her head. She would have defended Sethos, for whom she had a certain weakness, but the reasoning was compelling. "I was under the impression that you and he kept in touch, Emerson," I said. "Don't you know where he is?" "I haven't heard from or about him for months," Emerson said. "Then I suggest you endeavor to find what has become of him. A wire to his superior, that Mr. Smith—" "Bracegirdle-Boisdragon," Ramses corrected. "I can't be bothered to remember that absurd name," I said. "His alias is unimaginative, but easier to pronounce. You might also telegraph Margaret, Emerson. Surely Sethos's wife must know where he is." "I don't know where she is either," Emerson grumbled. "It's the damnedest marriage I've ever seen, Margaret off to one corner of the world covering a news story and he in another corner doing God knows what. They've been married less than a year." "They were—er—together for several years before their marriage," I said. "Margaret is deservedly proud of the success she has achieved in her journalistic career, and his present occupation is not one a wife can share." "He wouldn't allow it," Nefret said. "It would be too dangerous for her—and for him. And wouldn't the Official Secrets Act prohibit him from confiding in her?" "We can but try," I said, rising. "I will wire her and Mr. Smith first thing tomorrow. Go to bed, Fatima, we will tidy up in the morning. Good night, Selim, and thank you." Sending the wires would serve another purpose—or at least I hoped it would. Those who were on the trail of Sethos would not hesitate to bribe the clerks at the telegraph office. If they learned we were ignorant of Sethos's whereabouts they might turn their attention elsewhere. Emerson pooh-poohed this idea as soon as I mentioned it, which I did the following morning at breakfast. "You underestimate their persistence and their intelligence, I believe," he said, cutting savagely into his bacon. "The men we encountered were ordinary thugs, but there is a cleverer mind behind this, there must be. We may be able to prove he has not communicated with us thus far, but what's to prevent him from doing so in the future? He certainly wouldn't be fool enough to telegraph us. He is fully aware of the fact that the clerks gossip with all of Luxor." He had made a point, and I was prompt to admit it. The replies to our wires were unsatisfactory. The telegram to Mr. Smith had been carefully couched, referring to Sethos as "our mutual friend." Smith's answer was brief and to the point. "Have no idea. Do you?" Margaret's newspaper, the Morning Mirror, informed us she was on assignment and could not be reached. "That sounds ominous," I remarked. "You don't suppose she is running around with the Bolsheviks, do you?" "It would be like her," Ramses said. "The woman will stop at nothing in pursuit of a story. Remember the time she sallied into Hayil and was taken prisoner by the Rashid?" "I detect a certain note of vexation in Mr. Smith's reply," I said, studying the brief message. "I don't detect anything except that he is unable or unwilling to give us information," Emerson growled. "We've come to a dead end, and I for one intend to forget the whole business." He tossed his napkin onto the table and rose. "Who is coming to the Valley with me?" "No one, Emerson. The Vandergelts arrive this morning and we are going to meet the train. Yes, my dear, you too." There was quite a crowd waiting at the station. Galabeeyahs flapped and turbans bobbed up and down. Cyrus was a generous employer and very popular. When the train stopped and his smiling face appeared at the window, a cheer arose. Cyrus swept off his fine Panama hat and bowed in response. Winters spent in Egypt's sunny clime had turned our American friend's face lined and leathery, and his sandy hair and goatee were sprinkled with silver, but he jumped out of the train with the agility of a young man. Though without formal training in archaeology, unlike other wealthy individuals who sponsored excavations as a form of amusement, Cyrus was no dilettante. He had always worked side by side with his crew and listened respectfully to the advice of my distinguished spouse. Turning, he offered his hand to his wife Katherine. I observed that she had gained a bit more weight; her cheeks were pink with heat and her green eyes looked tired. Her son Bertie followed her, his somewhat plain features transformed by the affability of his smile. He immediately offered an arm to Jumana, the other member of Cyrus's staff, but the girl hopped lithely out without giving him so much as a glance of thanks. A typical Egyptian beauty with melting dark eyes and delicate features, she was as ambitious as she was attractive. Bertie had been in love with her for years, but had not succeeded in winning her heart. "Good to have you back," Emerson declared, wringing Cyrus's hand. "Good to be back," said Cyrus, drawing a deep breath. "What have you been up to? Any fresh corpses, Amelia?" "You will have your little joke, Cyrus. We don't have a murder every season." "Name one," Cyrus countered with a grin. "There have been a few odd occurrences—" "Never mind," said Emerson sharply. I declined Katherine's invitation to a late luncheon, wishing to give our friends time to rest after the long dusty train ride. "We will see you this evening, if you feel up to it," I proposed. Emerson cleared his throat. "We are dining with Carter tonight, Peabody." "Howard?" I turned to stare at him. "I didn't know he was in Luxor." "Got in yesterday," Emerson said, looking off into the distance and shuffling his feet. "I was unaware of that. He asked us to dine this evening?" "Yes. Most kind. I accepted, of course." Emerson added hastily, "Subject to your approval, my dear." "That's all right," Cyrus said, with a concerned look at his wife, who was leaning on his arm. "Cat could do with a day of rest. We'll see you tomorrow." We escorted the Vandergelts to their carriage and waved them off. Emerson disdains any form of transport (except the motorcar), so we set off on foot toward the dock. The weather was cooler and the sky a trifle overcast. I regretted having assumed a proper morning frock instead of my comfortable trousers and coat. The styles of that year were lighter and less cumbersome than the garments of my youth, with their trailing skirts and awkward bustles, but my shoes pinched and the heels were too high for easy walking. However, I do not allow discomfort to distract me and I at once began to query Emerson. "How is it that you were aware of Howard's arrival before I learned of it? Why didn't you tell me he had asked us to dine?" "I just did," said Emerson. "Take my arm, my dear, those shoes are really not suitable for such rough surfaces. I like your frock, though. New, is it?" It was, but Emerson would have said the same about any garment I assumed, since he never paid the least attention to what I was wearing. Before I could pursue my questioning, he turned his head and addressed a remark to Nefret, who was walking behind us arm in arm with Ramses. "You are both included in the invitation. Carter was particularly insistent that you join us, Nefret. I believe he still admires you. In a perfectly gentlemanly manner, of course." Nefret laughed. "Howard is a perfect gentleman, despite what certain British snobs say about him. I've heard that he has become attached to another lady, though." "You refer to Lord Carnarvon's daughter, Lady Evelyn Herbert, I presume," I said. "From what I have heard, the attachment is rather more on her part. However, I never indulge in vulgar gossip of that nature." Howard's house, which he called Castle Carter, was at the northern end of Dra Abu'l Naga, close to the road that led into the Valley of the Kings. I sometimes wondered whether the name was an attempt to imitate Cyrus Vandergelt, whose elegant and capacious home was known to all in Luxor as "the Castle." Howard did not get on well with Cyrus, who had often outbid him for the unusual antiquities he hoped to acquire for his patron, Lord Carnarvon. Ramses suggested that Howard was rather referring to the old saying about an Englishman's home being his castle. Ramses has a more kindly nature than I. Howard had designed and built the house himself, with the financial assistance of Lord Carnarvon. The location was not attractive, being only barren ground without trees or grass, but the structure was pleasant enough, quite in the Arab style, with a domed hall in the center and high arched windows in the dining and sleeping rooms. Howard greeted us warmly (which did not dispel my suspicion that the invitation had not been his idea, but Emerson's). We took drinks in the domed reception hall. It was simply but comfortably furnished, with low chairs and settees and brass tables. Howard introduced us to his new pet, a little yellow canary. Nefret, who shared Howard's fondness for animals, went at once to the cage and chirped at the pretty creature. It tilted its head and chirped back. "Charming," I said. Emerson grunted. "I hope it meets a happier fate than some of your other pets, Carter. What with feral cats and hawks—" "Oh, I shan't let it out of its cage," Howard said. He put his finger into the cage. The canary hopped onto it and let out a melodious trill. He added, "The men say it is a bird of good omen. A golden bird foretells a golden discovery this season." We went into the dining room and Emerson, who felt he had wastedenough time on the amenities, asked what luck Howard had had in the antiquities shops of Cairo. Howard shrugged. "Not much. I hope to do better here in Luxor." He took a spoonful of soup and made a face. "I must apologize for my cook. He has not the skill of your Maaman." The meal was in fact rather bad—the soup overseasoned, the beef tough, the vegetables stewed to mush. Naturally I did not say so. After dinner Howard showed us his acquisitions. One was rather charming—a cosmetic pot consisting of seven joined cylinders, each of which had contained a different variety of paint for face and hands. Howard shrugged my admiration aside. "It isn't the sort of thing that will excite his lordship. Do you happen to know of any artifacts at the Luxor dealers? Anything Vandergelt hasn't already got his hands on," he added somewhat sourly. "Mr. Vandergelt only arrived this morning, so you may be able to get in ahead of him," Ramses replied with a smile. "However, we haven't heard of anything unusual." "I'll go round to Mohassib's first thing in the morning," Howard said. "So you don't mean to start work immediately?" Emerson asked. Howard didn't miss the implicit criticism. "I see no reason for haste. His lordship will not be out for several more weeks, and it won't take us long to clear that small section." "And then what?" Emerson asked. Howard motioned to the hovering attendant to refill his wineglass. "That will be up to his lordship." Some persons might have accepted this evasion and not pursued the subject. Not Emerson. "Do you hope to persuade him into
continuing in the East Valley?" "If Tutankhamon isn't in my little triangle, he must be somewhere," Howard declared. "Not necessarily," Emerson said. "That is—not necessarily in the East Valley." He immediately looked as if he regretted having said so much, adding, "His is not the only royal tomb we haven't located." "But his is the one I'm after," Howard said. He leaned forward,planting his elbows on the table—a vulgar habit which, I am sorry to say, was shared by my husband, who did the same. "You know that, Emerson, old chap," Howard went on. "You told me last year—didn't you?— that I ought to keep on looking. 'Predate your advice. Your help." Emerson, who had done his best to send Howard to another part of the Valley, had the decency to look embarrassed. "It'll be empty, like all the rest," Howard said sadly. "If it's there." From the bird in the adjoining room came a ripple of song. From Manuscript H Ramses was not surprised that his father should dismiss the search for Sethos, to quote his mother. (She had a penchant for colorful phrases.) Emerson was obsessed. Why he believed that Carter would find a tomb in the unpromising little triangle of ground Ramses did not know. Perhaps he had no real evidence, only a feeling, a hunch; but as Ramses knew, the greatest excavators develop an instinct for discovery. It had happened over and over again, especially to the untrained but phenomenally successful tomb robbers of Luxor. Emerson's instincts were as great as theirs. He had to control himself, fuming, while Howard Carter made the rounds of the Luxor dealers. At Cyrus's urging he agreed to open their own excavation in the West Valley, but his heart wasn't in it. Instead of badgering the men who were finishing the clearance of the tomb of Ay, where they had worked the year before, he wandered around the far end of the West Valley with Bertie and Jumana in tow. He was looking for new tomb entrances. He didn't find any. They heard nothing more from the men who had lured them to the shop. The more Ramses thought about it, the more he was inclined to agree with his father. It had been a singularly inept and pointless ambush. The men must have been strangers, since no local man would believe the Father of Curses could be so easily intimidated. Selim had been unable to find any trace of them, and his contacts were extensive. The gatekeeper reported no inquisitive strangers, the dog didn't bark in the nighttime. But then she wouldn't, Ramses thought, unless someone approached the children's window. Amira was the possessor of a very pretentious doghouse, designed by David. Charla had assisted him, so the house had a minaret, a veranda, and carpets throughout. The dog had refused to sleep in it, though, until they moved it under the children's window. The apparent absence of activity didn't reassure Ramses. During his war years he had acquired a sort of sixth sense about being watched—it was a necessary survival trait—and he knew the watchers were out there, somewhere. The ambush might have been a feint, a crude attempt to distract them from more subtle methods. He didn't like uncertainty, and there were too many unsettled problems. They were in the West Valley on sufferance, since technically it was part of Carnarvon's concession. If they did find any new tombs, Carnarvon was sure to take over, especially if his excavation in the East Valley came up empty. There had been no further discussion about Nefret and him moving to Cairo for the winter, but he knew his mother had not abandoned the scheme. And where the devil was Sethos? He didn't suppose his mother would put up with this state of affairs for long. She brought matters to a head one evening when the Vandergelts were dining with them. The cook had prepared all Emerson's favorite dishes and he had almost finished his postprandial whiskey and soda before his wife cleared her throat portentously. "I have a few things to discuss with you, Emerson. No, my friends, don't go. We have nothing to hide from you." "She believes I will behave better with you here," Emerson explained. Replete and relaxed, he was in an affable mood, his pipe in one hand and his glass in the other. "Very well, Peabody, have at me." The affability lasted only until she mentioned her intention of hiring new staff. Emerson sputtered and glared. When she went on to inform him that the younger Emersons planned to spend the winter in Cairo, Ramses braced himself for an explosion. Emerson's reaction was worse. His massive form seemed to shrink. "Is this what you want, my boy?" he asked in faltering tones. "No, sir. That is—we haven't really . . . That is . . ." He gave Nefret a helpless look. She came to sit on the arm of Emerson's chair and put her arm round his bowed shoulders. "We've talked of it, Father, but we haven't come to a decision." "It's up to you, of course." Emerson fumbled for a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. "I shall miss the kiddies." Now that, Ramses thought, was a bit too much. Emerson's emotions were completely sincere, but instead of shouting he was using guile to get his own way. "Shame on you, Emerson," said his wife coldly. Cyrus, who hadn't ventured to speak until then, said tentatively, "If you want my opinion . . ." "I don't," said Emerson, forgetting his role. "I do," said his wife. "We are all in this together when it comes to our plans for the remainder of this season and for seasons to come. It is agreed, is it not, that we wish to continue the arrangement that has proved so successful—combining our forces into a single group?" "Nothing would please me more," Cyrus exclaimed. "It would only be making it official. I'm no Egyptologist, and I would be more than happy to have Emerson take over as director." "Hmph," said Emerson. "Well. . ." "Excellent," said his wife briskly. "We cannot continue in the West Valley indefinitely. It was a temporary arrangement in any case. We must settle on another site and add to our staff." "I tell you what we need," said Cyrus. "An artist. I don't suppose Mr. or Mrs. Davies would be available?" "No, no," Emerson said. "Not a chance. They have other commitments. But David—" "Also has other commitments," said his wife, in a tone that brooked no argument. "What about that young Frenchwoman, Mlle. Malraux?" She had done it again. Emerson became so involved in arguing about details that he tacitly conceded her point. She made two of her little lists, one of sites they should consider, and another of potential staff members. "I shall just pop up to Cairo tomorrow, then," she announced. "What for?" Emerson demanded suspiciously. In a tone of exaggerated patience, she replied, "To interview possible staff members, inform M. Lacau of our new arrangement, and ask his advice about another site. Unless you would prefer to go in my stead?" Faced with several chores he detested plus abandoning his surveillance of Howard Carter, Emerson gave in without a struggle—as she had known he would. Ramses managed to get a word alone with her after the Vandergelts had left. "You aren't going to look at houses for us, are you?" "I doubt there will be time," she replied, studying her lists. "I don't want to be away too long. Try to prevent your father from bullying Howard." "Yes, Mother. You've something else on your mental list, haven't you?" She looked up at him, her face grave. "We are still under surveillance." "I've been keeping an eye out. Haven't seen anything suspicious." "But you have felt it. So have I. One develops certain instincts." "One does," Ramses agreed. He couldn't help asking the question. "Have you dreamed of Abdullah lately?" "You've always scoffed at those dreams." "Now, Mother, I never have." Nor had he, not in so many words. When she first spoke of those unusual, vivid dreams of their former reis, he had been happy she believed in their reality, for they comforted her. Abdullah had sacrificed his life to save hers, but the bond between them had already been strong. She and the old Egyptian had come to care for each other in a way he would once have believed impossible, considering the differences in their backgrounds and beliefs. Gratitude and strong affection, the denial of loss, might reasonably account for her need to believe the people she had loved were not gone from her forever. He couldn't say precisely when he had begun to share her faith in her dreams. Perhaps it was the sheer strength of her belief. "I will certainly ask him about Sethos when next I see him," she said, straight-faced. "Until I do I will have to rely on less reliablesources. I mean to call on Mr. Smith while I am in Cairo. He wouldn't confide information in a telegram, but a face-to-face interview may be more productive." Ramses didn't doubt that. She had her methods. "Shall I give him your regards?" she asked. She knew how he felt about Smith, who exemplified to him the faults of the intelligence services. They didn't give a damn about how many lives they destroyed in the pursuit of their self-defined duty. He had hated every second of the time he spent working for them. "No," he said. I had a busy day in Cairo, one that taxed even my energy. I had not made an appointment with M. Lacau, but I did not anticipate any difficulty in seeing him, and so it proved. I think he was so relieved to find himself dealing with me instead of with Emerson that he would have agreed to anything I asked. But in fact, he and Emerson were on reasonably good terms these days. (Emerson could not be said to be on excellent terms with very many Egyptologists.) We had preserved for the Museum some of its greatest treasures, risking our own lives in the process, and Lacau was not ungrateful. He was a distinguished-looking man, with white hair and beard, so meticulous in his habits that people said he made lists of lists. (An excellent idea, in my opinion.) He bowed me into his office with the utmost courtesy, and for a while we chatted of generalities, including the director's recent statement about the partage (division) of artifacts discovered by foreign expeditions. "Some arrogant excavators behave as if the entire land of Egypt were their own personal preserve," Lacau declared. His beard bristled. "I intend to tighten the laws so that the great majority of objects remain, as they should, in Egypt." "Emerson is in full agreement with you, sir," I said truthfully. "You may count on his support. And mine, of course." After that, M. Lacau would have acceded to my slightest wish. My next appointments were with the young persons I was considering as potential staff members. I had selected two for further consideration. Having spoken at greater length with Mlle. Malraux, and observed Nefret's warm reception of the girl, I had decided my initial reservations were unfounded. She was a vivacious little creature, bubbling with enthusiasm, but one's initial impression of prettiness was based on her manner rather than the regularity of her features, and there was something a little unnerving about her eyes; the blue pupils were entirely surrounded by milky white, so that she appeared to be in a permanent state of surprise or alarm. However, physiognomy is not an accurate indicator of character, and the portfolio she had brought impressed me. An archaeological artist has different qualifications from those of a painter; he or she must be capable not only of accurate copying, but of a certain feeling for the techniques and beliefs of the culture. I was particularly struck with a watercolor she had done of the head of a mummy in the Louvre. My other candidate was the opposite of mademoiselle in almost every way, and a contradiction in himself. He had one of the jolliest faces I had ever beheld, round-cheeked, smiling, eyes beaming goodwill. One would have expected such a cheery-looking man to bubble as mademoiselle did; but Nadji Farid appeared to be very shy. He sat with eyes lowered and spoke only when he was spoken to, in a soft, melodious voice. However, what he said when he did speak displayed his familiarity with the methods of excavation, and I did not object to taciturnity. It would be a pleasant change. By mid-afternoon I had completed all my tasks save one, and had every expectation of being able to catch the evening express as I had planned. However, tracking down Mr. Bracegirdle-Boisdragon, aka Mr. Smith, proved to be more difficult than I had expected. He had once given me a private telephone number, but when I rang it, a woman's voice informed me in Arabic that they did not accept lady customers. Not being entirely certain what to make of that, I did not pursue the matter. My next step was to go through the Ministry of Public Works, which was Bracegirdle-Boisdragon's cover position. It took some timeto work my way through the bureaucratic muddle, and when I was finally connected with his assistant the hour was late and I had become exasperated. "Inform him that Mrs. Emerson will be at the Turf Club at five o'clock, and that if he does not meet me he will deeply regret it." I have always found that unspecific threats are the most effective; the victim's imagination supplies consequences more terrifying than any I could carry out. I was also fairly certain, from the assistant's occasional silences, that Bracegirdle-Boisdragon was in the office. However, he had not the courage to speak directly to me. "Not the Turf Club, Mrs. Emerson." The young man sounded as if he were quoting. "They have not yet recovered from your last visit. Take tea at Groppi's at five." I was ready for a refreshing cup of tea and one of Groppi's excellent pastries. The ambience was certainly more pleasant than the aggressive masculinity of the Turf Club; lamps with crimson shades cast a soft glow, and footsteps were muted by Persian rugs. Scarcely had I seated myself when a low voice greeted me by name. I looked up to see, not Smith's long nose and pointed chin, but the countenance of a younger man, with a forehead so high his features appeared to have been squeezed into the lower half of his face and miniaturized: a softly rounded chin, a button of a nose, and a mouth as sweetly curved as that of a pretty girl. "Mrs. Emerson, is it not? My name is Wetherby. We spoke earlier today. May I join you?" "By all means," I said. "And then you may explain why your superior sent you instead of coming himself." Mr. Wetherby edged himself into a chair. "He thought it better that he not be seen tete-a-tete with you at the present time. I am completely in his confidence, ma'am, and will report directly to him." "Hmmm," I said. "Very well. I must catch the evening express, so just listen and don't interrupt." My description of Emerson and Ramses's encounter with the arsonists caused him to purse his lips. "Why were we not informed of this earlier?" "I asked you to refrain from interrupting me. Why did your employer not respond more informatively to Emerson's telegram?" "His reply was the simple truth, Mrs.