He Shall Thunder in the Sky (38 page)

     “There is nothing to discuss,” said Emerson, coming to a jolting halt in front of the hotel.

     “But, Professor —”

     “The matter is finished,” Emerson declared. “We made the attempt; we failed, through no fault of our own; we can do no more. Curse it, the damned terrace is even more crowded than usual. Don’t these idiots have anything better to do than dress in fashionable clothes and drink tea?”

     He charged up the stairs, drawing Nefret with him.

     We never have any difficulty getting a table at Shepheard’s, no matter how busy it is. The arrival of our motorcar had been noted by the headwaiter; by the time we reached the terrace a bewildered party of American tourists had been hustled away from a choice position near the railing, and a waiter was clearing the table.

     I leaned back in my chair and glanced casually at the vendors crowded round the stairs. They were not allowed on the terrace or in the hotel — a rule enforced by the giant Montenegrin doormen — but they came as close as they dared, shouting and waving examples of their wares. There were two flower sellers, but neither of them was David.

     Poor David. Almost I wished that the failure of our hope could be kept from him. There was no chance of that, though; by now he might have heard of it from other sources. Gossip of that sort spreads quickly; there is nothing so interesting to the world at large as a grisly murder.

     One of the disadvantages of appearing in public is that one is forced to be civil to acquaintances. I daresay that Emerson’s scowling visage deterred a number of them from approaching us, but Ramses’s pacifist views had not made him persona non grata to the younger women of Cairo. As Nefret had once put it (rather rudely, in my opinion), “It’s quite like a fox hunt, Aunt Amelia; the marriageable maidens after him like a pack of hounds while their mamas cheer them on.” We had not been seated long before a bevy of fluttering maidens descended on us. Some made straight for Ramses, while those who favored more indirect methods greeted Nefret with affected shrieks of pleasure.

     “Darling, what have you been doing? We haven’t seen you for ages.”

     “I’ve been busy,” Nefret said. “But I am glad to see you, Sylvia, I intended to pay you a little call. What the devil do you mean, writing those lies to Lia?”

     “Well, really!” one of the other young women exclaimed. Sylvia Gorst turned red with embarrassment and then white with terror. The glint in Nefret’s blue eyes would have frightened a braver woman than she.

     “You know of Lia’s situation,” Nefret said. “A friend would wish to avoid worrying or frightening her. You’ve written her a pack of gossip, most of it untrue and all of it malicious. If I hear of your doing it again I’ll slap your face in public and — and —”

     “Proclaim your perfidy to the world?” Ramses suggested. The corners of his mouth were twitching.

     “Not quite how I would have put it, but that’s the idea,” Nefret said.

     Sylvia burst into tears and was removed by her twittering companions.

     “Good Gad,” Emerson said helplessly. “What was that all about?”

     “You were very rude, Nefret,” I said, trying to sound severe and not entirely succeeding. “What was it she told Lia?”

     “Something about me, I presume,” Ramses said. “No doubt you meant well, Nefret, but that temper of yours —”

     Nefret shrank as if from a blow, and he stopped in mid-sentence. She pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m sorry. Excuse me.”

     “You shouldn’t have reproached her, Ramses,” I said, watching Nefret hasten toward the door of the hotel, her head bowed. “She had already begun to regret her hasty speech, she always does after she loses her temper.”

     “I didn’t mean what she thought I meant.” He looked almost as stricken as Nefret. “Damn it, why do I always say the wrong thing?”

     “Because women always take everything the wrong way,” Emerson grumbled.

     When Nefret came back she was smiling and composed, and accompanied. Lieutenant Pinckney, looking very pleased with himself, was with her. Naturally, with a stranger present, none of us referred to the small unpleasantness. Emerson would not have been deterrred by the presence of a stranger, but he still had no idea what the fuss had been about.

     After greeting Lieutenant Pinckney I allowed the young people to carry on the conversation. As my eyes wandered over the faces of the other patrons, I was reminded of something Nefret had said: “I feel that everyone I see is wearing a mask, and playing a part.” I had the same feeling now. All those vacuous, well-bred (and not so well-bred) faces — could one of them be a mask, concealing the features of a deadly foe?

     There was Mrs. Fortescue, clad as usual in black, surrounded as usual by admirers. Many of them were officers; many of them were highly placed. To judge from her encounter with Ramses, the lady (to give her the benefit of the doubt) was no better than she should be. Philippides, the corrupt head of the CID, was also among those present. Was he a traitor as well as a villain? Mrs. Pettigrew was staring at me, and so was her husband; the two round red faces were set in identical expressions of supercilious disapproval. No, surely not the Pettigrews; neither of them had the intelligence to be a spy. The swirl of a black cloak — Count de Sevigny, stalking like a stage villain toward the entrance of the hotel. He did bear a startling resemblance to another villain I had once known, but Kalenischeff was long dead, killed by the man he had attempted to betray.

     Ramses excused himself and rose. I watched him descend the stairs and plunge into the maelstrom of howling merchants who immediately surrounded him. Since he was a head taller than most of them, it was not difficult for me to follow his progress. He examined the wares of several flower sellers before approaching another man, bent and tremulous with age. As soon as Ramses had made his purchase, the fellow ducked his head and withdrew.

     The pretty little nosegays were rather wilted. Ramses presented one to me and the other to Nefret. She looked up at him with a particularly kindly expression; it was clear that she had taken the flowers as a tacit apology and that all was forgiven. Since she had been deep in conversation with young Mr. Pinckney, I felt sure she had not seen the exchange.

     Emerson was fidgeting. He had only agreed to come to Shepheard’s to enable Ramses to communicate with David; now that that was done, he allowed his boredom to show.

     “Time we went home,” he announced, interrupting Pinckney in the middle of a compliment.

     I had no objection. I had found the inspiration I sought.

It is impossible to indulge in ratiocination while driving with Emerson. What with bracing oneself against sudden jolts, and warning him about camels and other impediments, and trying to prevent him from insulting operators of other motorcars, one’s attention is entirely engaged. I was therefore forced to wait until we reached the house before applying my mind to the idea that had come to me on the terrace of Shepheard’s. A long soothing bath provided the proper ambience.

     Sethos was in Cairo. I began with that assumption, for I did not doubt it was so. I have no formal training in Egyptology, but I have spent many years in that pursuit, and the peculiar circumstances surrounding the discovery of the statue had not escaped me. I am sure I need not explain my reasoning to the informed Reader (which includes the majority of my readers); she or he must have reached the same conclusion. The statue had been placed in the shaft within the past few days, and there was only one man alive who could have and would have done it.

     As for Sethos’s motives, they were equally transparent. He was taunting me: announcing his presence, defying me to stop him should he choose to rob the Museum or the storage magazines or the site itself. I had realized early on that the present confusion in the Antiquities Department and in Egypt would be irresistible to a man of Sethos’s profession. Some might wonder why he had announced himself by giving up one of his most valuable treasures. I felt confident it was one of Sethos’s little jokes. His sense of humor was decidedly peculiar. The joke would be on us if he managed to steal the statue back. What a slap in the face that would be for Emerson!

     I leaned back, watching the shimmer of reflected water on the tiled ceiling of the bath chamber. There was no doubt in my mind that Emerson had reached the same conclusion. Very little having to do with Egyptology escapes him. Of course the dear innocent man did not suppose I was clever enough to think of it. He had not told me for the same reason I had kept silent. The subject of Sethos was somewhat delicate. Emerson knew I had never given him cause to be jealous, but jealousy, dear Reader, is not under the control of the intellect. Had I not myself felt its poisonous fangs penetrate my heart?

     Yes, I had. As for Sethos, he had made no secret of his feelings. Early in our acquaintance he had tried on several occasions to remove his rival, as he considered Emerson, once before my very eyes. Later he had sworn to me that he would never harm anyone who was dear to me. Obviously that included Emerson, and I sincerely hoped that Sethos agreed. Just to be on the safe side, I decided I had better find him before Emerson did. I had no doubt I could succeed. Emerson had not my intimate knowledge of the man. Emerson would not recognize him in any disguise, as I could do . . . as I had done . . . as I believed I had . . .

     I must have a closer and longer look at the man I suspected. The Reader may well ask why, if I believe Sethos to be guilty of nothing worse than stealing antiquities, I should try to find him instead of concentrating on the viler villain, the enemy agent, who might also be a traitor to his country. I will answer that query. In his day, Sethos’s web of intrigue had infiltrated every part of the criminal underworld of Egypt. He knew every assassin, every thief, every purveyor of drugs and depravity in Cairo. He could draw upon that knowledge to identify the man I was after — and by heaven, he would, for I would force him to do so! I raised my clenched fist toward the tiled ceiling to reinforce that vow, narrowly missing the nose of Emerson, who had crept up on me unobserved and unheard, owing to the intensity of my concentration.

     “Good Gad, Peabody,” he remarked, starting back. “If you want privacy you need only say so.”

     “I beg your pardon, my dear,” I replied. “I did not know you were there. What do you want?”

     “You, of course. You have been in here for almost an hour. And,” Emerson added, studying my toes, “you are as wrinkled as a raisin. What were you brooding about?”

     “I was enjoying the cool water and lost track of the time. Would you care to help me out?”

     I knew he would, and hoped that the ensuing distraction might prevent him from asking further questions. I was correct.

     It was rather late by the time we were dressed and ready to go down. I assumed the others had already done so, but I stopped at Ramses’s door to listen. The door opened so suddenly, I was caught with my head tilted and my ear toward the opening.

     “Eavesdropping, Mother?” Ramses inquired.

     “It is a shameful habit, but cursed useful,” I said, quoting something he had once said, and was rewarded by one of his rare and rather engaging smiles. “Are you ready to go down to dinner?”

     Ramses nodded. “I was waiting for you. I wanted to have a word with you.”

     “And I with you,” said Emerson. “You had no opportunity to write a note. What did you tell David?”

     “To meet me later this evening. We need to discuss this latest development.”

     “Bring him here,” I urged. “I yearn to see him.”

     “Not a good idea,” Emerson said.

     “No.” Ramses gestured for us to proceed. “There is a coffee shop in Giza Village where I go from time to time. They are accustomed to see me and would not be surprised if I got into conversation with a stranger.”

     The scheme was certainly the lesser of several evils. Meditating on possible methods of lessening the danger still more, I led the way to the drawing room.

     Nefret had been writing letters. “How slow you all are tonight!” she exclaimed, putting down her pen. “Fatima has been in twice to say dinner is ready.”

     “We had better go straight in, then,” I said. “Mahmud always burns the food when we are late.”

     We got to the table just in time to save the soup. I thought I detected a slight undertaste of scorching, but none of the others appeared to notice.

     “Good to have a quiet evening,” Emerson declared. “You aren’t going to the hospital, Nefret?”

     “I rang Sophia earlier, and she said I am not needed at present.” Nefret had changed, but not into evening attire; her frock was an old one, of blue muslin sprigged with green and white flowers. It might have been for sentimental reasons that she had kept it; Emerson had once commented on how pretty she looked in it.

     “I planned to develop some of the plates this evening,” she went on. “I’ve got rather behind. Will you give me a hand, Ramses?”

     “I am going out,” Ramses replied rather brusquely.

     “For the entire evening?” She raised candid blue eyes, eyes the same shade as her gown.

     The innocent question had an odd effect on Ramses. I knew that enigmatic countenance well enough to observe the scarcely perceptible hardening of his mouth. “Just to the village for a bit. I want to hear what the locals have to say about the statue.”

     “Do you think they are planning to steal it?” Nefret asked, laughing.

     “I am sure some of them would like to,” Ramses replied. “I won’t be late. If you would like to wait a few hours I will be happy to assist.”

     I offered my services instead and Nefret accepted them. It was an odd conversation altogether; we talked, as we usually did, of our work and our future plans, but I could see that even Emerson had to force himself to take an interest. Not so odd, perhaps, considering that three of the four of us were concealing something from the fourth.

     After dinner we went to the parlor for coffee. Several letters had been delivered while we were out; despite the general reliability of the post, many of our acquaintances clung to the old habit of sending messages by hand. There was one for me from Katherine Vandergelt, which I read with a renewed sense of guilt.