The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (12 page)

We were shown round by the custodian, a mournful-looking individual in a dusty galabeeyah. The house was ideal, in size and in location. It was a little north of the village and a trifle south of the new suburb, set apart in its own ample grounds. It had been built by a former minister of state whose career had taken a sudden turn for the worse. A man of foresight, he had got out of the country with his head still on his shoulders and a fortune in jewels sewn into his clothes. The villa, as it should be called, testified to his good taste if not to his prudence. It must have cost a pretty penny, for the construction was solid and the design an attractive combination of antique charm and modern comfort. Three wings of two stories each surrounded a large courtyard with a tiled fountain in the center. The entrance from the street led to the courtyard through a large and handsomely decorated takhtabosh, a reception hall open on one side to the court. Beautiful mashrabiya screens masked the windows of what had once been the harem, and there were several bath chambers in the European style. Another advantage was that the place was not far from the main road and the electric tramway that led from Cairo to the Pyramids.

After I had looked at each and every chamber I joined the others (who had tired of poking into cupboards and inspecting plumbing) in the courtyard, and announced my decision. "The place suits admirably. We will be settled in before Christmas, on which day I hope you will all join us for a fitting celebration."

Miss Maude's large brown eyes widened. "So soon? My dear Mrs. Emerson, it took me three weeks just to get the spiders removed from our house!"

"I have some experience in these matters," I said. "I will just go round to the office of the agent this evening and settle the business. We will have our people from Atiyah here tomorrow morning; Selim will be in charge, he can find—"

"Selim?" Emerson had been talking with Jack Reynolds. He whirled round. "I cannot spare Selim, Peabody. I want him at the site tomorrow."

"You cannot begin excavating tomorrow, Emerson."

"Why the devil not? That is why I am here," said Emerson, teeth bared and brows lowering. "To excavate. Not to sweep floors or help you select curtains and pots and pans and furniture."

The sight of Emerson in one of his little tempers, his shoulders thrown back, his blue eyes blazing and the cleft in his chin vibrating, never fails to thrill me. I replied, "I don't expect you to do anything of the sort, my dear. You may prowl the site to your heart's content, but you will have to do it without Selim. I need him." Turning to Geoffrey, who, like the others, had followed our exchange with considerable interest, I explained, "Selim is our reis, you see. The members of his family have worked for us for many years. Many of them reside in Atiyah, a village just south of here."

"Oh, yes," Geoffrey said, nodding. "Professor Emerson's trained men are the envy of all other excavators. David Todros, whom I met last year, is one of them, I believe."

"Not exactly," Ramses said. "David is a fully qualified archaeologist. He is now a member of our family as well, having recently married my cousin."

"So that is settled," I announced.

"No, it isn't," Emerson announced. "I'll tell you what, Peabody; we will compromise, eh? Compromise," he explained to the young people, "is essential to domestic as well as international peace. Mrs. Emerson and I are almost always of one mind, but compromise smooths over those little differences that occasionally occur. We will have a look at the site tomorrow and after that you can clean and scrub to your heart's content! How's that, my dear?"

It is impossible to resist Emerson when he thinks he is being clever, and anyhow, domestic discussions are best not conducted in public. "Very well," I said. "We had better be going. I am indebted to you, Miss Reynolds, for your help in this matter, and for a delightful luncheon."

We parted on the most amiable terms, and as we boarded the tram I said, "It will be nice to have such agreeable young persons as neighbors."

"Just so you don't expect me to spend all my time drinking tea and gossiping with Maude," Nefret said. "Goodness, how boring she is! She was quite rude to Mr. Lawrence, I thought. You weren't very polite either, Ramses; don't you like him?"

"I find him frightfully public-school, but I don't know him well enough to like or dislike him. I ran into him when I was in Palestine with Reisner. He had been working at Carchemish."

"He's not an Egyptologist?" Nefret asked.

"No."

"He can't be a suspect, then."

"The least likely suspect, I should say," Ramses replied with a faint smile.

"What are you talking about?" Emerson demanded.

"The forger, of course," said Nefret. "Surely you hadn't forgot about that little matter, Professor. If we are to track him down—"

"We won't do it by suspecting every Egyptologist we happen to run into," Emerson said in exasperation. "Order and method—"

"Don't seem to be getting us anywhere," Nefret declared. "Are we going to the suk this evening, Aunt Amelia?"

"Yes. We must begin shopping for"—I glanced at Emerson— "curtains and pots and pans and furniture."

Emerson's well-cut lips curved in an expression that was only distantly related to a smile. "Don't think you can put me off that way, Peabody, I am too familiar with your underhanded methods. Shopping for pots and pans is not your main purpose. You plan to question the antiquities dealers—to interrogate them, badger them and bully them. Not without me, my dear. You have a bad habit of annoying the wrong people."

"A nose for crime, rather," said Nefret, smiling. "You were planning to let me go with you, weren't you, Aunt Amelia?"

"Certainly. I need your advice about the curtains."

We enjoyed a hearty chuckle over this little joke. At least Nefret and I did.

When we reached the dahabeeyah I told Fatima about the new house and left her happily collecting buckets and scrub cloths, brooms and cleaning materials. Then we went to the office of the agent and signed the papers. It did not take long. Egyptians do not waste time haggling with Emerson.

. There are now modern establishments in Cairo that sell a wide variety of European goods, and certain stretches of certain streets are almost indistinguishable in appearance from those in any city; but the Khan el Khalil still retains its air of Oriental mystery, especially after dark. The narrow lanes are roofed with matting and the merchants squatting on the mastaba benches before the small shops resemble figures out of the
Arabian Nights.

We went first to the sellers of fabric, where rainbow-colored silks and damasks woven with gold and silver threads shimmer in the glow of copper lamps. Since I knew precisely what I wanted (I always do) and what its cost should be, it did not take me long to select stuff for curtains and draperies. Emerson rolled his eyes and muttered, however, so I decided not to try his patience by looking at furniture. We would have to make do with the beds and chests and tables from the dahabeeyah until replacements could be received.

A queer sinking sensation overcame me when we neared the establishment of the dealer we had determined to visit first. Not premonitions of the unknown future but memories of the past prompted the feeling; for here, at the witching hour of midnight, Emerson and I had discovered the body of the former owner hanging from the ceiling of his shop. Hardened as I am to crime, the sight of that gross body and hideous, swollen face had left a very nasty impression. The shop was now owned by the son of Abd el Atti, who was a lesser man than his father had been in every way. Aziz Aslimi had once had a shop on the Muski, in the European quarter, but he had proved to be such a poor businessman that he had to give it up and return to the Khan el Khalil. The memories that haunted me probably did not disturb Aziz in the least. He was not a sensitive man. Nor, I thought, was he a criminal, except in the broad sense that applies to almost every antiquities dealer in Cairo. None of them can afford to be overly scrupulous about the origins of the merchandise they handle.

The place was small and the doorway narrow; we had to step aside to allow a customer to emerge—a stooped gray-haired man wearing a frock coat of old-fashioned cut, and a limp white neck handkerchief. He squinted nearsightedly at us, touched his hat, muttered, "Verzeihen Sie mir, guten Abend," and limped away.

"We're treading a bit too close on his heels," whispered Emerson, taking my arm. "Hang on a minute, Peabody."

I could not see that it mattered, since his own mother would not have recognized Ramses unless she had—as had I—beheld the transformation, but we waited for a bit before going in. Mr. Aslimi pretended to be delighted to see us and insisted we drink coffee with him.

The same prolonged courtesies occurred at the other establishments we visited, so it was late before we returned to the
Amelia
to find Ramses, in his own persona, waiting for us in the saloon.

"What luck?" he inquired.

"None," I replied. "I ought not have allowed your father to accompany me. He has not the patience or the temperament for such delicate inquiries. One cannot gain information by shouting at people and threatening them—"

"I never raised my voice," Emerson exclaimed indignantly. "As for threatening people, it was you who told Aslimi—"

"Now, Professor darling, don't get excited." Nefret perched on the arm of his chair and put an affectionate hand on his shoulder. "I doubt there was any information to be gained. You were no more successful, Ramses, were you?"

Ramses shook his head. "I anticipated as much. Remember that the fellow has been careful to avoid purchasers who knew David by sight, or who would know he is not an Egyptian."

"Unless he
is
an Egyptian," I said.

"Bah," said Emerson. "Don't start muddying the water, Pea-body. We can now be reasonably certain the swine hasn't approached any of the Cairo dealers."

"And that substantiates our earlier deductions," Ramses said. "The fellow is English or European. Or," he added, glancing at Nefret, "American. Why should he take the risk of peddling his fakes here when he can get better prices, more safely, from European dealers? We know he was in Europe and England this past summer; that's when all the objects were sold, and none of them came on the market before April. That suggests this is a recent operation."

"Not much help," Nefret grumbled. Then she brightened. "Let's make a list of suspects."

"Premature," Ramses said, looking down his nose at her.

"I don't agree," I said. "We have deduced all that is possible from the scanty information at our disposal. Why not speculate— theorize, rather—a bit? It can do no harm and might lead to something."

"You've made one of your outrageous lists, I suppose," Emerson said resignedly.

"I have made a list, yes. As for outrageous—"

"So have I," Nefret said quickly. "Who is first on yours, Aunt Amelia?"

"I believe I could hazard a guess," Ramses murmured.

"Pray do," I said, with a suspicious look at him.

"Howard Carter."

Nefret gasped, Emerson swore, and I said severely, "Have you been snooping in my papers again, Ramses?"

"No, Mother. I know how your mind works. Carter has three things against him. He is an artist and an Egyptologist, and he has no income of his own. He passed three years without a position, scraping a living as best he could, and he is still dependent on the caprices of patrons like the Earl of Carnarvon. The temptation to build up a little nest egg would be understandable."

"You are assuming that the motive behind this is greed," I said.

"A logical assumption, isn't it? There may be strange, perverse motives that elude me—" He looked at Nefret, and his rare smile warmed his austere features. "But the only such motive that comes to mind is resentment of David or of our family in general, and that is surely far-fetched. There are simpler, more direct ways of getting back at us."

"Quite," Emerson grunted. "I refuse to discuss strange perversions. The most obvious motive is the need or desire for money. That might well apply to Carter, but your sweeping description of him as an artist is balderdash. The fellow we're looking for is a sculptor, not a painter."

"The two categories are not necessarily exclusive," Ramses said, before I could offer my opinion. "And the forger and the scholar need not be the same person."

"That might be considered another point against Carter," Emerson admitted. "He's been working in Luxor for years, as Inspector for the Antiquities Department, as a dealer, and as an excavator. He is probably on first-name terms with every forger in Gurneh."

"He would not need a forger, since he is an artist himself," I pointed out. "The same is true of the other individuals on my list."

"Come, come, Peabody. How many such individuals can there be?" Emerson demanded.

"You would be surprised, Emerson. What about Signor Barsanti?"

"Ridiculous, Peabody. He's fifty years of age if he's a day, with no stain on his character. I thought we agreed our suspect is one of the younger lot."

"An assumption only, Emerson. Altered circumstances may drive a formerly honest man to crime. Signor Barsanti was originally hired as a conservator and restorer. A man who has learned how to restore a work of art has learned how to imitate it. Then there are Mr. Quibell and his wife. Annie was copying reliefs at Sakkara when we first met her, if you recall; I'll wager she knows enough about the language to produce the fakes single-handedly. Mr. and Mrs. de Garis Davies have produced copies of Theban tomb paintings that are almost the equal of our dear Evelyn's, and—"