Lion in the Valley (43 page)

'"One
day, my dear, you will learn to laugh with me at the follies of mankind. But I
beg you will assuage your thirst."

The
sight of the pale liquid in the glass he offered made my throat feel drier than
ever, but I folded my arms and shook my head. "Thank you, no. I never
drink with assassins and kidnappers."

"You
don't trust me? See here." He raised the glass to his lips and drank
deeply before offering it again. I took it; ostentatiously turning it so that
my lips would not touch the spot his had rested upon, I quenched my thirst. The
wine had a dry, tingling taste that was most refreshing.

"Now,"
Sethos went on, seating himself on a cushion, "shall I tell you how I
captured you?"

"It
is obvious," I said with a shrug. "You slipped something into my
glass of wine when you caught it to prevent it from spilling. My collapse
alarmed my companion; assisted by you, she had me carried to her room. Her
balcony gives onto a courtyard, from which it
would not be
difficult to transport a trunk or a bag of laundry to a waiting carriage. Is
Miss Debenham also a prisoner, or have you added another murder to your long
list?"

Sethos
was offended. "I do not murder women," he said haughtily.

"You
only have them abducted, accused of murder—''

"The
young woman was never in danger of being executed or even imprisoned,"
Sethos said. "Nor has she been harmed. A touch of chloroform, from which
she has long since recovered ..."

"Then
she must know you are the viscount—or you were—or perhaps I should say that the
viscount was you...."

"It
does not matter. That persona is of no use to me now; it has been discarded.
You never suspected me?"

"Emerson
did," I cried. "You cannot deceive Emerson; he is on your trail, and
you will not escape his vengeance!"

"Emerson,"
Sethos repeated, with a sardonic smile. "Never mind him; what about
you?"

"I
thought you were Mrs. Axhammer," I admitted. "And Ramses—you remember
Ramses—"

"Only
too well."

"Ramses—after
all, he is only a little boy—suspected the detective, Mr. Gregson."

"I
was Gregson."

"What!"

"I
was also Mrs. Axhammer. I was all three!"

As
the meaning of his words struck home, my spirits plummeted into the depths. I
was as close to despair as I have ever been, even when I thought myself buried
alive in the Black Pyramid. For I had counted on Gregson to assist Emerson in
tracking Sethos to his lair___

Galvanized,
I bounded to my feet. "Emerson," I shrieked. "He was to meet
you—Gregson—what have you done with my husband?"

"Damn
Emerson," was the irritated reply. "Why must you keep mentioning him?
I haven't done anything to him. The appointment was a ruse, to get him out of
the way. I never went near the Cafe Orientale, and I hope he is still sitting there
swilling coffee and reeling from the conversation of that abominably loquacious
offspring of yours."

"I
don't know why I should believe you."

"I
don't know why you should not." Sethos rose to his feet. Slowly and
thoughtfully, he said, "Radcliffe Emerson is one of the few men in the
world who could be a serious threat to me. An ordinary, unimaginative villain
would have him exterminated; but that is not my way. Besides, I rather enjoy a
challenge, and appreciate a worthy adversary. The only advantages I have over
Emerson are, first, his preoccupation with his archaeological research, from
which he is not easily distracted, and, second, his atrocious temper, which
leads him to act without thinking."

"Yet,"
I said wonderingly, "you have destroyed the first of those advantages by
abducting me; for if I am not restored to Emerson unharmed, every ounce of his
considerable energy and intelligence will be bent on finding you. As for his
temper, it is a terrifying thing to encounter when it is aroused. You, sir,
have aroused it."

"Quite
true. Don't suppose I was unaware of the risks. Since I proceeded with my plan,
you must believe I considered the result worth those risks."

As
he spoke, he advanced slowly toward me. I stepped back, circling the couch,
until I could retreat no
farther. Sethos came on, lightly as a
panther stalking its prey.

I
set my back against the wall, prepared to defend myself to the last. "Do
your worst, you monster," I cried. "You have taken away my parasol
and stripped off my tools; but never think you can break the spirit of a
Peabody! Torture me, murder me—"

"Torture?
Murder?" He gasped for breath, his hands tearing at the open throat of his
shirt. "Madam! Amelia! You misunderstand me totally. Why, I killed a man
yesterday and left him lying before your tent only because he dared hazard your
safety by shooting at the man who was with you!"

Before
I could take in this remarkable speech, much less respond to it, he had flung
himself—not at my throat—but at my feet. "Most magnificent of women, I
adore you with all my heart and soul! I brought you here, not to harm you, but
to shower upon you the ardent devotion of a soul hopelessly caught in your spell!"
And he buried his flushed face in the folds of my trousers.

Fourteen

T
hough
the astonishing turn of events surprised me considerably, it did not offer any
reassurance for the future, and my indomitable will quickly conquered my
amazement. Sethos continued to breathe heavily onto my left knee. His shirt
collar had slipped back, exposing the nape of his neck. The trick had failed
the first time; all the more reason why I should give it another try. Clasping
my hands tightly together, I struck.

The
results were most gratifying. Sethos let out a grunt and released his hold. His
knees slipped on the polished marble and his head hit the floor as he fell
forward. His head would have struck my feet had I remained motionless, but even
as he toppled, I was running for the door.

I
had forgotten the cursed thing had no handle. I pushed at it in vain. Turning
at bay, I saw Sethos advancing toward me. His tinted glasses had fallen off.

His
black eyes—his brown eyes—or were they gray? Whatever color they were, they
were blazing with homicidal lust—or perhaps, considering his recent
declaration, it was another kind of lust. To be honest, I did not really care
which. Desperately I ran my hands over my trousers, hoping against hope some
small tool had been overlooked—my penknife, my scissors, even a box of matches.
He was almost upon me when a burst of inspiration illumined the darkness of
despair. The belt itself! It was two inches wide and fashioned of thick though
flexible leather, with a heavy steel buckle. Whipping it off, I whirled it
vigorously.

"Back!"
I shouted. "Stand back, or I will mark you in such a fashion that you will
always bear one unmistakable stigma no disguise can hide!"

Sethos
leaped back with agile grace. A smile twitched at the corners of his mouth.
"That," he remarked, "is what made me love you, Amelia. You are
so magnificently disdainful of common sense and discretion. The man who shares
your life will never be bored.

"Please
put that down and be reasonable. Even if you could strike me unconscious you
could not leave the house."

"I
could try," I retorted, continuing to whirl my belt, which made a sharp
singing sound, like that of an angry insect.

"You
could try. But you would fail; and if my men thought you had killed me or
seriously injured me, they might harm you. Will you be more amenable if I
promise on my solemn oath that I will not touch you or approach you again until
you ask me to?"

"That
will never happen," I assured him.

"Who
knows? Life is full of unexpected happenings; that is what makes it endurable.
If you won't take my word, look at it this way: You know me to be—well,
let
us not say vain—let us just say I have a good opinion of myself. Does it not
seem more in keeping with what you know of my character that I would derive a
peculiar pleasure from winning your affection—turning hate to love, contempt to
admiration—rather than resorting to the brute force lesser men might employ? I
despise such crudeness. And," he added, with another smile, "I am
sure your arm must be getting tired."

"Not
at all," I said stoutly. "I can keep this up all afternoon. However,
your argument has its merits." I did not mention another, more persuasive
argument, and I must say he was courteous enough not to refer to it with so
much as a fleeting glance—the fact that my trousers, deprived of a large part
of their support, were responding to the inexorable law of gravity.

"Very
well," I said. "It appears to be an impasse, Mr. Sethos. I will take
your word, but mind you, I give no promise in return."

I
had not used his name before. Upon hearing it, his eyebrows lifted and he
laughed. "So you have discovered my favorite pseudonym! Leave off the
honorific, if you please; it sounds a trifle absurd, and dispels the
confidential air I would like to see between us."

"No,
thank you," I replied. "I prefer to maintain as much formality
between us as the unusual circumstances permit."

"But,
hang it," he cried, half laughing and half angry, "how can I begin my
wooing with soft phrases and tender words if I must refer to you as Mrs.
Emerson?"

"I
feel sure a little difficulty of that nature will only be a challenge to
you."

He
held out his hand. With a shrug I gave him the belt.

"Thank
you, Mrs. Emerson," he said gravely. "And
now
I must ask that you assume those garments I have had laid out for you."

"How
dare you, sir!"

"As
a simple matter of self-defense, Mrs. Emerson. Heaven knows what other hard or
prickly objects you have concealed about your person. There is room for a set
of carving knives in those trousers." Correctly interpreting my mutinous
expression, he added, "Aside from removing the arsenal you carried on your
belt, and your boots, neither I nor my assistants searched you. It was a mark
of the peculiar respect I feel for you, but if you force me..."

"Again
your arguments are persuasive, sir. I trust you will show me the additional
courtesy of leaving me alone while I carry out your command?"

"Certainly.
Rap on the door when you are ready. But don't try my patience too long."
Then he said, in a language I recognized as French, though it was slurred and
oddly accented, "Let down your tresses, oh my beloved, that their perfumed
splendor may be the only barrier between your ecstasy and mine."

I
believe I succeeded in concealing my surprise at this extremely personal
comment, for I thought it better to pretend I had not understood. Yet a strange
sensation ran through me—a tingling warmth, if there can be such a thing. The
extraordinary powers of the man were not limited to those of the mind; his body
was that of an athlete, and his voice—that remarkable, flexible, and sonorous
instrument—could change as suddenly and as completely as could his appearance.

He
left me then, and I did not delay in following his orders. Do not believe, dear
Reader, that I would have acquiesced so meekly had I not had an ulterior
motive. Little did the villain know he had played into my hands! It was a pity
that I could only attain my ends by such
a doubtful stratagem, but by ordering me
to remove my garments he had given me an excuse to dispose of certain of those
garments in a manner he could not expect. He had said he would not return until
I summoned him, but not knowing whether he would keep to his word, I had to work
quickly.

Removing
my trousers, I unwound the flannel belt I always wear when in Egypt and tore
off a strip. How often had my dear Emerson teased me about this article of
clothing! It was an invaluable protection against catarrh, as was proved by the
fact that I had never suffered from that complaint. (In fact, Emerson had never
suffered from it, either, though he absolutely refused to wear a flannel belt.
However, Emerson is a law unto himself.) The belt had proved useful on a number
of occasions; now it might be my salvation. Fortunately I had purchased a new
supply before leaving England, and the bright pink color had not been faded by
repeated washings.

It
was with some reluctance that I removed from around my neck the chain from
which hung my lapis scarab bearing the cartouche of Thutmose the Third. It had
been Emerson's bridal gift; to part with it now, when it was my only memento of
him, was hard indeed. But my hands were firm as I knotted the chain onto the
end of the flannel strip. How fitting it would be if the gift of marital
affection should save me from a fate that is (supposed to be) worse than death.

Returning
to the window with my bit of flannel, I extracted one of my hairpins. Though a
good three inches in length, these devices were useless as weapons because of
their flexibility. However, this very quality was what I counted on now.
Selecting the largest of the apertures in the shutter, I pushed the flannel and
its scarab appendage into the hole as far as I could reach
with
my finger. The hairpin then came into play. There was a moment of suspense when
the flannel jammed in the outer opening and would not move; after poking and
prodding it, I finally felt it give way, and triumph filled me as I pushed the
rest of the strip through and knotted the end to prevent it from falling out.