Lion in the Valley (9 page)

He
made no attempt to conceal his presence. He stood aloof from the other men, his
arms folded across the breast of his ragged robe. He was bareheaded, and the
noonday sun turned his red-gold hair to flame.

Abdullah's
eyes followed the direction of my gaze. "I hope I did not err in allowing
him to remain here, sitt. He is dressed like the lowest beggar, but he said
Emerson had hired him, and when we saw he was an Inglizi..."

"Yes,
quite right, Abdullah." So that was why the fellow had abandoned his
disguise. Our loyal men would have driven him away otherwise.

Nemo
strolled toward me. "Good morning, Mrs. Emerson. Or should it be good
afternoon? I am a trifle out of practice with expressions of polite
usage."

The
fellow had the effrontery to be sarcastic. His drawling voice and educated accent,
the courteous inclination of his head (in lieu of removing his hat, of which he
had none) were in the best manner. He had even shaved. I must confess that the
countenance thus displayed would have prejudiced me in his favor had I not had
reason to suspect him of the most appalling duplicity. It was no wonder I had
taken him for a Berber. His high cheekbones and hawklike nose, his broad brow
and thin lips were characteristic of that race.

"How
is your arm?" I inquired.

"I
beg you will not mention it." The scowl that accompanied this courteous
disclaimer turned the statement into a demand.

'
'It is necessary for me to mention it in order to ascertain whether you are fit
for the duties for which you have been employed," I declared. "I do
not allow anyone on my expeditions to suffer from an ailment I can
relieve.
That includes the donkeys. Abdullah—"

"Yes,
sitt," Abdullah said resignedly. "The donkeys have been washed."

"Good.
You see, Mr. Nemo, I am showing you the same concern I would show a donkey—an
animal which in many ways you resemble. If you are not ready to accept this,
you can take yourself off."

A
spark of emotion that might have been amusement or anger warmed the sea-blue
depths of Nemo's eyes. They were clear; apparently he had not recently indulged
in drugs. "Very well, Mrs. Emerson. I will demonstrate my ability to carry
out my duties, and I think I had better begin at once. Young Ramses is about to
be flattened by that packing case, which is too heavy for him."

So
saying, Nemo departed. His leisurely stride was deceptive; he covered the
ground at quite a rapid pace, arriving on the scene he had described just in
time to lift the case under whose weight Ramses was slowly sinking to his
knees.

"Well,
Abdullah," I said. "What do you think?" I had the greatest
regard for Abdullah, whom I had known for many years. He was a splendid
specimen of manhood, almost as tall as Emerson; and though his hair and beard
were snowy white, he had the strength of a man half his age. He and his group
of associates had been trained by Emerson in the methods of proper excavation,
so that many of them were better qualified than the majority of European
archaeologists. They were in great demand by other excavators, but their
loyalty to Emerson—and, I think I may say, to me—was paramount. I would have
trusted Abdullah with my life; Emerson trusted him with his excavations, which
was as high a mark of favor. Indeed, Abdullah's only weakness (aside from his
extensive collection of wives) was
an irradicable and deep-seated
superstitiousness. He had never abandoned his belief in efreets and demons,
although on innumerable occasions he had seen us tear the veil from seemingly
supernatural terrors and expose the ordinary human villains behind the mystery.

Abdullah
also prided himself upon the imperturbability of his countenance. This
characteristic seemed more marked than usual that day; his thin, well-cut lips
scarcely moved as he replied stiffly, "Think, honored sitt? I do not
permit myself to think, unless ordered to do so by yourself or Emerson."

I
understood the reason for his ill-humor. "It was not because of
dissatisfaction with your son Selim that we employed the Inglizi to act as
guard to Ramses," I assured him. ' 'Like all your people, Selim is too
valuable to be wasted as a nursemaid. Besides, we hoped to do a charitable
action in helping the Englishman."

Abdullah's
rigid face relaxed. "Ah. I understand, sitt. Charity is pleasing to Allah,
and your kind heart is well known. But, sitt, do you know that the man is a
smoker of opium?"

"I
intend to break him of that vile habit, Abdullah."

"Ah,"
Abdullah said again, stroking his silky beard. "It is not easy to do that.
But if anyone can break a man, it is you, Sitt Hakim."

"Thank
you, Abdullah. Will you please explain to Selim, so he won't be
disappointed?"

"Disappointed,"
Abdullah repeated thoughtfully. "No, sitt, I do not think Selim will be
disappointed."

"Good.
What I meant, Abdullah, by my question, was whether the Englishman looked
familiar. Think carefully, Abdullah. Have you ever seen him before?"

Abdullah
did not stop to think at all. "No, sitt. Never."

Thinking
back over the events of the not-too-distant
past, I realized that
Abdullah had not beheld the Master Criminal in his final apotheosis, for he had
been drugged at an early stage in the proceedings and had slept through the
whole exciting denouement. However, he had seen the Master Criminal in his role
as Father Girgis on a number of occasions.

"Are
you certain, Abdullah? Do you remember the priest of Dronkeh?"

"Yes,
how could I forget him? He ..." Abdullah's mouth remained open; his eyes
emulated his mouth, widening till the whites showed around the dark centers.
Then his shoulders began to twitch and strangling noises issued from his parted
lips. A casual observer might have mistaken his reaction for amusement; but of
course I knew better.

I
hastened to reassure him. "There is nothing to be alarmed about, Abdullah.
I have the matter well in hand. I am glad you were also sharp enough to
penetrate the villain's disguise—"

"No,
sitt, no." Abdullah regained control of himself. "You mistake me,
sitt. A slight coughing spell... The dust in my throat... Perhaps my ears
deceived me, or my aging brain failed to understand what you meant. Are you
saying that this Inglizi is the—the same person as the—the.

"You
had better let me give you some medicine for your throat affliction," I
said. "Your ears did not deceive you, Abdullah, and your brain is as good
as ever. Better than the brain of a certain person who ought to be wiser. I
mention no names, Abdullah."

"No,
sitt, of course not. But, sitt, it cannot be. This is not the same man."

"The
huge black beard and the long black hair were false—"

"The
priest had black eyes, sitt. This man's eyes are blue."

I
should have known better than to depend on Abdullah. He was, after all, only a
man. "I have no time to explain," I said. "Just watch the
fellow, Abdullah. It is better to have him with us, under our eye, than lurking
in the desert plotting against us. But don't trust him."

"I
hear and will obey," said Abdullah, his lips twitching.

"I
have the most implicit confidence in you, Abdullah. But I cannot stand around
chatting any longer. We must get underway."

The
donkeys had been loaded, but it was necessary for me to greet each of the men
individually, or their feelings would have been hurt. They were all old
friends, and most were sons of Abdullah (I have already referred to his
proclivities toward procreation). Selim was the youngest of his offspring, a
lad of fifteen with an almost Grecian beauty of feature. I congratulated him on
his recent marriage, for the proprieties had to be observed even though I
deplore the horrid eastern custom of sending boys and girls into the hazards of
matrimony at such tender ages. Then I explained to him, as I had to his father,
why we had found someone else to look after Ramses.

Selim
assured me that he was not at all distressed at being replaced, and I must say
that he concealed his disappointment very well. He helped me to mount and
walked beside me as we started forward, laughing and chatting cheerfully about
John, our footman, who had been with us the year before. John had made himself
quite popular with the men, and Selim was pleased to learn that his friend had
also taken a wife in the interval.

Our
little caravan proceeded along the path leading west. The inundation had
receded from the fields, after
depositing its annual layer of rich
fertile mud, and the green sprouts of the new crops could be seen against the
black earth. Our road led along one of the dikes raised above the fields,
toward the village of Menyat Dahshoor, which stood on the edge of the
cultivated land at the point where the earth turns abruptly to desert sand.

Emerson
led the way as was his habit, perched on a minuscule donkey. If he had
straightened his legs and stood up, the donkey could have walked right through
them, but Emerson pictures himself on such occasions as mounted on a fiery
horse leading his troops into battle. I would not for all the world have
spoiled his innocent pleasure by pointing out that a man of six-foot-odd looks
ridiculous on donkeyback.

Ramses
rode behind him, engaged in animated conversation with Nemo, who had refused a
mount and was walking alongside the boy, his long strides easily matching the
plodding pace of the donkey. I wondered what they were talking about. Not that
there was anything unusual in Ramses' talking.

Not
for long was my attention held by those in my immediate vicinity, for my eyes
were drawn to the splendor of the view beyond. The two stone pyramids of
Dahshoor loomed on the horizon. The brilliance of the midday sun was reflected
by the white limestone blocks of their sides and they shone as if
silver-plated. They are among the oldest funerary structures in Egypt,
predating even the mighty tombs of Giza. The larger of the two is exceeded in
height only by the Great Pyramid. The excavations of M. de Morgan had proved
that it was built by King Sneferu of the Fourth Dynasty. (Emerson and I had
suspected this all along, of course.)

The
name of the builder of the second stone pyramid was still unknown. That was one
of the mysteries we
hoped to solve that season. But only one
of the mysteries—for this second stone structure has a number of curious
features not found in other pyramids. Most conspicuous is its shape. A sudden
change in the degree of the slope, from approximately fifty-four degrees in the
lower section to a more abrupt forty-two degrees fifty-nine minutes (if memory
serves me) in the upper section has bestowed upon it the appellation of the
Bent or Blunted Pyramid. Why this anomaly? And, even more thrilling in its
implications, what was the cause of the strange winds that occasionally swept
through the dark and stifling interior passageways?

I
particularly dote on the interiors of pyramids. There is some strange
fascination in the awesome darkness, the airless silence, and the flapping of
bat wings. Though I had promised myself many hours of delightful exploration
within the Bent Pyramid, seeking the source of the uncanny and intermittent
winds, I knew I could not count on much help from Emerson. He sympathizes with
my passion for pyramids, but he does not share it, and he had always
pooh-poohed the theory that there were hidden openings and chambers within the
Bent Pyramid, even though I had myself felt those eerie winds. "Bats,
Peabody. Dozens of bats flapping their leathery wings and blowing out your
candle. I do not deplore your imagination, my dear, for indeed it is one of
your more charming qualities. But..."

It
is a waste of time to talk to Emerson when he has made up his mind about
Egyptological matters; but I privately vowed he would experience the phenomenon
himself—if I had to hold him prisoner inside until it happened.

His
main concern that season was to identify the owner of the Bent Pyramid. The
burial chambers of the Sixth Dynasty pyramids are covered with texts
identifying their owners, but, strange as it may seem, none of the earlier
tombs has a single inscription inside or on it. The only way of ascertaining
the names of the kings to whom they belonged is from the associated structures—
temples and subsidiary tombs, enclosure walls and causeways.

(In
revising these journals for eventual publication I have added a few paragraphs
for the edification of readers who do not share my expert knowledge.
Edification, not entertainment, is my aim, as it should be the aim of any
intelligent reader. I have no intention of succumbing to the numerous requests I
have already received to permit my personal diaries to be published in my
lifetime, but my high regard for science demands that the interesting and
useful information contained in these pages be one day disclosed to the world.
Wishing to spare my heirs the painful labor of revision—and also wishing to do
myself justice, which no one else can do as well—I have undertaken a few modest
changes.)

Our
path led past the village, whose small flat-roofed houses and minareted mosque
we could see among the palms and tamarisk trees. I wondered what sort of home
Abdullah had found for us. My expectations were low. When I first met Emerson,
he had set up housekeeping in a tomb, and experience has taught me that members
of the male sex have very peculiar standards of comfort and cleanliness. I
wished we could have returned to our headquarters of the previous season. The
abandoned monastery had proved a commodious and comfortable residence, once I
had it remodeled to suit my requirements. But though Mazghunah was only a few
miles to the south, it would have been a waste of valuable time to transport
ourselves and our gear that distance daily.