Lion in the Valley (23 page)

"Not
at all. It was a sensible decision. But how did you remain undiscovered that
night and throughout the following day?"

"It
was not easy. For, as you know, the archaeological sites are infested with
guides, beggars, and the like, who follow one like a cloud of flies. I finally
realized that the only persons who pass unnoticed are Arab women of the poorest
class. I purchased a robe from one of them, assumed it in the privacy of an
unoccupied tomb, and began walking. No one paid the least attention to me, and
I spent the night huddled in a cleft in the rock somewhere between here and
Sakkara. I cannot say I slept well.... When I reached here the next afternoon,
I was on the verge of collapse. I had only strength enough to remove my
disguise and conceal it, with the few small articles I had brought away with
me, before I made myself known to you and the professor."

"Well,"
I said judiciously, "allow me to say, Enid, that you displayed a tenacity
and inventiveness that do you credit. I take it that the coat to your bicycling
dress was among the objects you hid?"

"Yes.
The notion of disguising myself as a lady archaeologist was still in my mind;
when, from concealment, I saw you talking with the professor, I tried to adjust
my dress to match yours. You were not wearing your coat, so I removed mine. I
had decided to attempt to deceive you as well—"

"You
need not apologize, my dear. I would have done the same. I had better retrieve
your belongings for you. Can you describe the place where you hid them?"

She
did so, with such accuracy that I felt sure I could find the place. "I
meant to get them last night," she went on. "But when I looked out
the flap of the tent, the desert was so cold and eerie ... And I heard strange
noises, Amelia—soft cries and moans—"

"Jackals,
Enid. Jackals. However," I added thoughtfully, "you must promise me
you will not leave your tent at night, whatever you may hear."

When
I left her, I took with me the skirt of her bicycling costume, explaining that
I would have it cleaned and brushed. Emerson was still doggedly drawing plans.
There was a great spatter of ink on the wall, so I deduced he had encountered a
stumbling block and had got over it, as he often did, by hurling his pen across
the room.

I
said encouragingly, "Persevere, Emerson; persevere, my dear." Then I
went up the stairs to the roof.

Behind
the shelter of the screen I changed into Enid's divided skirt, and removed my
belt. It cost me a pang to leave it and its useful tools behind, and to abandon
my parasol; but I knew I could never be mistaken for another while I had them.
After I had put on tinted spectacles and fastened a pith helmet on my head, I
had done all I could to complete the resemblance. Rather than pass through the
parlor and prompt questions from Emerson, I descended from the roof by means of
the holes and crevices in the wall.

Though
the sun was sinking, the village yet drowsed in the somnolence of the afternoon
nap. I crossed my arms casually across my chest—the dimensions of that region
being the most obvious difference between Enid's figure and mine—and emulated
her slower, swaying walk.

I
had not gone a hundred yards from the compound before I felt eyes upon me.
Nothing moved on the broken expanse of the desert slope ahead; no living
creature could be seen, save the eternal vultures swinging in slow graceful
circles down the sky. Yet I knew I was being observed—knew it with the certain
instinct described so well by Mr. Haggard and other writers of fiction. It is a
sense developed by those who are often the object of pursuit by enemies; and
certainly no one had been pursued more often than I.

I
went on at a steady pace, but the hairs at the back of my neck were bristling.
(Emerson would probably have claimed the sensation was produced by
perspiration, and I admit that the pith helmet was cursed hot. However, Emerson
would have been mistaken.) The sensation of steady, watching eyes increased
until I could bear the suspense no longer. I spun round.

The
cat Bastet sat down and returned my look with one of amiable interest.

"What
are you doing here?" I inquired.

Naturally
she did not reply. I continued, "Return to the house at once, if you
please." She continued to stare at me, so I repeated the request in
Arabic, whereupon the cat rose in a leisurely fashion, applied her hind foot to
her ear, and walked away.

The
prickling at the back of my neck did not lessen as I went forward. Though I
raked the landscape with
keen eyes, turning from time to time to
look behind me, I saw no living form. Bastet had abandoned her pursuit; it had
not been her eyes I felt fixed upon me. As I had told Emerson, I felt certain
that Sethos had kept and did keep us under constant observation. That he would
strike again I felt certain; that he had selected Enid as the scapegoat for his
hideous crime and would endeavor to deliver her to the police—I was equally
certain of that. Cheered and encouraged by the confirmation of my suspicions,
in the form of that significant prickling sensation, I proceeded on my way.

It
was not difficult to find the place where Enid had concealed her belongings.
She had not buried them deep, and in fact a fold of black fabric protruded from
the sand like a sable banner.

I
dug up the parcel, glancing furtively round as I thought Enid might do under
those circumstances, and hoping the assailant I expected would make his move
without delay. There were many places nearby where such a person might be
concealed, for, as I believe I have mentioned, the rocky plateau was marked by
innumerable ridges and crevices.

Nothing
happened, however. Continuing my role, I gathered the bundle in my arms and
returned with it to Enid's tent, where I could examine it at leisure.

The
worn black
tob
and
burko
(face veil) were of the poorest quality,
and sadly worn—worn often and continuously, to judge by the odor that pervaded
them. They would have to be washed—boiled, in fact—before they could be worn
again, but I put the garments aside. One never knows when a disguise may be
useful.

The
robe had been wrapped around a small handbag within which was a pitiful
collection of odds and ends, obviously snatched up at random in the panic of
that
fearful morning. A little box of pearl powder and a pot of lip
paint, an ivory-handled brush and a dainty handkerchief were objects she might
have had already in the bag. Crammed on top were a few pieces of jewelry,
including a gold watch and a locket of the same precious metal, adorned with
pearls. The most interesting item, however, was a large roll of banknotes. The
total came to over five hundred pounds.

The
girl had been described as an heiress, and the names of the couturiers she had
mentioned bore out the assumption that she had ample wealth at her command. Yet
this was an astonishing amount for a young woman to carry on her person.
Thoughtfully I returned the money and the watch to the bag. There were
unplumbed depths in that young person; they might or might not have bearing on
her present dilemma, but I was determined to know the facts so that I might
decide for myself. To that end I permitted myself another violation of
propriety. I opened the locket.

It
was with a sense of inevitability that I saw a familiar face enshrined there.
The frame of the locket cut off the lower part of the chin, and the color of
the hair was reduced to sober gray. I knew the color, though, as I knew the
features.

Was
the photograph that of Nemo or of the other man who so nearly resembled him?
Was one, or both, Enid's cousin Ronald? And if one was Ronald, which one? And
which, if either, was Sethos?

I
confess that for a moment my thoughts were in a whirl. But was I distracted
from my purpose by this startling development? Never believe it, Reader! I hung
the locket round my neck. I shook out Enid's coat, which had been wrapped
around the bag. It was quite snug across my chest—in fact, the buttons would
not
fasten. That was all to the good, however, for I wanted the locket
to be seen.

Settling
myself atop a promontory some distance from the tents, I prepared to wait. I
had no assurance that anything interesting would occur that day, but sooner or
later my efforts must bear fruit. Nothing escaped the notice of that unknown
genius of crime; he must know of Enid's presence at Dahshoor. He would not have
been deceived by her masquerade any more than I had been. All things come to
him who waits, as the saying goes, and I did not doubt that assault and/or
abduction would come to me.

I
felt horridly undressed without my belt and my parasol. However, the pressure
of my pistol, in the pocket of the trousers, was reassuring, if uncomfortable.
Once I thought I saw something move, behind a rock some distance away, and with
hope rising high in my heart, I deliberately turned my back. But no one came.

I
was not bored. An active mind can never be bored, and I had a great deal to
think about. In between musing on the possible location of my pyramid's
entrance and my plans for washing Nemo's robe (and Nemo) that evening, I considered
means of keeping Enid safe that night. I was forced to admit that my initial
plan, of having Enid sleep in a tent near our own, was unsatisfactory. I had
neglected to consider the fact that my marital obligation (which is also, let
me hasten to add, my pleasure) would distract me to such an extent that I would
be unable to hear, much less prevent, an attack on the girl's person should
such occur. At last I concluded that it would be better for Enid to remain at
the house that night. Proper chaperonage, though important, had to yield in
this case to more vital matters, such as Enid's survival and Emerson's and my
conjugal felicity.

As
the sun sank lower in the west, the changes of light along the sloping sides of
the pyramid produced fascinating aesthetic alterations, and I found myself
musing about the long-dead monarch whose mummified remains had once rested in
the now desolate burial chamber. With what pomp and circumstance had he been
carried to his tomb; with what glitter of gold and glow of precious stones had
his petrified form been adorned! A natural progression of ideas led me to
recall another Pharaoh—the one whose name had been taken by the terrible man
whose emissaries I awaited even now. The tomb of the great Sethos, Pharaoh of
Egypt, lay far to the south in the Valley of the Kings at Thebes. It had been
discovered in 1817 and it was still among the leading attractions of the area.
The magnificent carvings and paintings of that most splendid of all royal tombs
suggest that Sethos' funerary equipment must have excelled all others; yet alas
for human vanity! Thousands of years ago, the monarch had been robbed of his
treasures and his mortal remains had been ignominiously thrust into a humble
hole in the cliffs, with others of his peers, to save them from destruction.
The cache of royal mummies had been found a few years before, and the remains
now rested in Cairo, where I had seen them. Sethos' withered features still
retained the stamp of royalty and the pride of race. In his day he was a leader
of men and a remarkably handsome individual—like his son Ramses, a lion in a
valley of goats. I wondered if the modern-day Sethos had ever contemplated the
shrunken yet noble features of his ancient namesake. Was it that mummy that had
prompted him to select his nom de guerre? Not too fanciful an idea for a man
who had already demonstrated a poetic imagination and considerable intellectual
ability. I felt a certain unwilling kinship for him, for I have the same
qualities myself.

The
lengthening shadows reminded me that the afternoon was almost spent and that
Emerson would be wanting his tea. I decided to wait five more minutes, and
shifted my position so that I faced the northeast. I could see the green of the
cultivated fields and the trees that half-concealed the minaret of the village
mosque. A haze of smoke from the cooking fires hung over the town like a gray
mist.

A
rumbling crash behind me brought me to my feet. Turning, I saw a cloud of dust
and sand rise from the base of the small pyramid. Apparently our excavations
that afternoon had weakened the crumbling stone, and part of the north face had
given way.

Mercifully
it had not happened when our men were working underneath. That was my first
thought. My next reaction was one of excitement. Surely there was something
visible on the northern face that I had not seen before—a square of shadow too
regular to be anything but man-made. Had the fortuitous accident disclosed the
hidden entrance?

Forgetting
detectival duties and marital responsibilities, I started eagerly down the
slope. In the surge of archaeological fever I had forgotten my reason for being
there. A herd of antelope could have swept down upon me without my noticing
them.

The
person who attacked me made far less noise. I was unaware of his presence until
an arm, sinewy as braided leather, lifted me off my feet. A folded cloth,
reeking of an odor that set my senses reeling, was pressed to my face. I fought
to extract my pistol from my pocket. I could feel it against my body, but I
could not reach the cursed thing. The voluminous size of the trousers defeated
the attempt. However, Amelia P. Emerson does not cease struggling until
comatose, and I continued to fumble through endless folds of brown velvet,
though my eyes were dimming and my fingers were numb.