The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (19 page)

"Alone?"

"Yes, why not?"

"No reason at all," he said quickly. "Only your horse appears a trifle nervous."

"I can handle her," I assured him, gathering the reins more firmly into my hands as the wretched beast tried to kick a passing donkey.

"Of course. Look here, Mrs. Emerson, I am staying with Jack and Maude for a few days; he is working on an article, and Maude is in Cairo, so I can borrow one of the horses and be with you in a few minutes."

"Kind but unnecessary," I assured him. "I am not a lady tourist."

He stepped back with a smile and a shrug. "You are going by way of the pyramids, I suppose."

"I may just stop for a word with Karl von Bork. He is there today, I believe?"

"Yes, ma'am. Herr Junker's season begins earlier than ours. If you are certain—"

My leave-taking was perhaps somewhat abrupt; he seemed willing to go on talking interminably, and I was in a hurry.

Karl was indeed at work on one of the mastabas in the Great Western Cemetery, one section of which had been assigned to the Germans—though, to be strictly accurate, I should say "the Austrians." Herr Steindorff, the original excavator, had been replaced by Herr Junker of the University of Vienna. He was not present that day; it was Karl who popped up out of the ground with a beaming smile and an offer to show me the tomb. Tempted though I was (for it looked to be a most interesting tomb), I declined, explaining that I was on my way to our site and that I had only stopped by to proffer an invitation to supper that night. Karl accepted, of course. Then he offered to accompany me, urging his case with such vigor that I was forced to leave him as abruptly as I had left Geoffrey.

Really, these men, I thought. One would suppose I was incapable of taking care of myself.

My spirits rose as I went on, following the dimly defined path that led across the plateau. Sun and solitude, blowing sand and silence! The empty blue sky above, the light-bleached barren ground below! Remembering the concern of my two young friends, I laughed aloud. This was my spiritual home, this the life I loved. There was not the slightest possibility of losing my way.

The mare had settled down and I had no difficulty controlling her until someone began shooting at us.

The first shot made her start and shiver; the second, which struck the ground just ahead of us, made her rear. I did not fall off. I dismounted. I admit I did it rather hastily. It is the better part of wisdom to take cover when someone is shooting at you.

Lying flat behind a low ridge, I watched the cloud of dust that marked the flight of my faithless steed and considered my next move. What to do, what to do? I had covered more than half the distance, and was, I calculated, less than a mile from my destination—an easy walk for a woman in fit condition, which I always am, but an upright figure would be a tempting target, and I was not keen on crawling all the way. To remain in my present position was probably the safest course. However, there was no way of knowing how long I might have to remain there before someone happened along or my unseen adversary abandoned the hunt. A few hours under the burning rays of the solar orb, and I would be baked like a sun-dried brick. Once he got to digging, Emerson was likely to go on until darkness fell, and he might return to the house by way of the road along the river, instead of following the desert path.

There seemed to be no point in hanging about. I was fully armed. My parasol and my knife were of no use unless I could come to grips with the fellow, but I had my little pistol. Raising my head, I took stock of my position.

Behind me the silhouettes of the Giza pyramids showed against the sky. The river, I knew, was below and on my left, though owing to my lack of elevation I could not see it. There was nothing else to be seen but the typical landscape of the plateau—pebble-strewn sand and piles of barren rock. Behind one such heap of stone my opponent must be concealed. The sun was high. It was later than I had thought. Time to be up and doing!

I extracted my pistol from my pocket and removed my pith helmet. Placing the latter article on the tip of my useful parasol, I raised it slowly. The result was most gratifying. Another shot rang out. Rising instantly to a sitting position, I fired in the direction from which (in my opinion) the bullet had come. I was about to fling myself flat again, in anticipation of an answering shot, when I beheld a horse and rider galloping toward me from the direction of Giza. What audacity the fellow displayed! He made a perfect target, or would have done had he not been moving so rapidly. For this reason I missed him with the first shot, and fortunately, before I could fire a second time, he had got close enough for me to recognize who it was. Catching sight of me, he reined up, leaped from the saddle, and flung himself upon me, bearing me to the ground. He was stronger than his slight frame had led me to expect; limbs and body weighed heavily on mine.

"Really, Mr. Godwin," I remarked breathlessly. "I am taken aback by your impetuosity."

"I beg your pardon, ma'am." He blushed and shifted his weight into a position that was slightly less intimate but just as effective in preventing me from moving. "Was I mistaken? I assumed those shots were aimed at you."

"I believe they were, yes. I appreciate your courageous attempt to shield my body with your own, Mr. Godwin, but there are several dozen sharp stones pressing into my back. The fellow has gone, I expect."

A rapid fusillade of explosions interrupted me. They were distorted and muted and it was obvious to me that they came from a considerable distance, but Mr. Godwin's chivalrous impulses overcame his common sense. With an exclamation of alarm he mashed me flat again.

"Curse it!" I gasped. "The villain is in rapid retreat, I tell you; I hear hoofbeats ... Oh, dear. Oh, dear! Do get up, Mr. Godwin, before something really dreadful happens."

Alas, the warning came too late. The hoofbeats were approaching, not retreating; they stopped; and over Mr. Godwin's shoulder appeared a face set in a hideous grimace, teeth bared, cheeks dark with choler, eyes blazing. Mr. Godwin rose precipitately from the horizontal to the perpendicular.

"No, Emerson!" I shrieked. "No, don't strike him! You are laboring under a serious misapprehension."

"Indeed?" Holding the unfortunate young man by the collar, Emerson checked the blow he had been about to deliver. He did not, however, unclench his fist.

"Mr. Godwin was protecting, not attacking me." I scrambled to my feet. Other riders were approaching. Emerson, on Risha, had outstripped the rest.

"Ah," said Emerson. "My apologies, Godwin."

"Put him down, Emerson," I suggested.

Emerson did so. The young man tugged at his collar and smiled bravely. "Quite all right, sir. I don't blame you for having the wrong impression. Someone was shooting at Mrs. Emerson, and I—"

"Yes, yes. We heard the shots too, and came to investigate. I thought they might have been aimed at my wife. People frequently shoot at her."

The others had come up to us—Nefret on Moonlight, and Ramses riding David's mare Asfur. Nefret slid from the saddle and hurried to me. The sight of her reminded Mr. Godwin of his manners. With a murmured apology, he removed his pith helmet.

"Don't fuss, Nefret, I am unscathed," I assured her, as she ran anxious hands over my frame. "But Mr. Godwin appears to have suffered some injury. Is that blood on your brow?"

"Is it?" He put his hand to his head. "Oh. Yes, I remember now; I wasn't wearing my hat at the time, I came away in something of a hurry. I suppose you didn't observe the fellow, Mrs. Emerson—a shifty-looking native with a black beard? He was on horseback; I noticed him when you stopped to chat, for I thought it somewhat odd that he would wait all that time and then follow when you went on. I didn't like his looks or the way he watched you..."

Emerson reached for him as he staggered, but it was Nefret's arms into which he sank. His weight bore her slowly but inexorably to the ground, where she took his head onto her lap.

Ramses had not dismounted. Lounging in the saddle, he looked down on the tableau with a slight curl of his lip. "Very prettily done," he remarked.

"Go to the devil, Ramses," said Nefret.

Geoffrey's faint lasted only a few seconds. Blushing, he quickly removed himself from Nefret's arms and assured her he was quite unharmed. Such appeared to be the case; the abrasion that had scored his scalp was only skin-deep. However, I insisted he return with us to the house so I could clean it properly. My horse had apparently vanished into the Ewigkeit where, so far as I was concerned, the confounded beast could remain; so Emerson took me up with him on Risha and we let the young people draw ahead.

"What have you been up to now?" my husband inquired.

"I don't know what you mean, Emerson."

"Yes, you do. What did you say, and to whom, that might have provoked this performance?"

"Nothing, I assure you."

"No veiled hints? No random threats?"

"No, Emerson, truly. At least I don't think so."

"Instigating an attack is one way of identifying an enemy, I suppose," Emerson mused. "It is not one of which I approve, Peabody."

"Honestly, Emerson, I do not understand it. Our investigations have been singularly—embarrassingly, one might say—unsuccessful. The only encouraging aspect of this attack—"

"I felt certain you would find one."

"Well, but it must mean that the forger is here—in Egypt, in Cairo, perhaps in Giza! The disguise he assumed this morning was the same he used in Europe."

"Including the shifty look and the sinister appearance?"

"Don't be sarcastic, Emerson. Geoffrey may have exaggerated a trifle after the event—he is a sensitive, imaginative young fellow. It was the man's behavior that aroused Geoffrey's suspicions."

"Hmph," said Emerson. "I wonder."

From Manuscript H

The old fakir ambled aimlessly along the narrow lanes of the suk. Nefret gave him only a passing glance; he was obviously a member of one of the orders of dervishes, a little taller and a great deal dirtier than most. Daoud, who had been proud to be asked to escort her that evening, drew her out of the path of a vendor balancing a huge tray of bread and indicated the open doorway of one of the shops. Racks of slippers of all types and sizes were on display outside; Nefret did not pause to inspect them but entered the small room, in whose doorway the merchant stood bowing and smiling.

When she came out of the shop sometime later, the old fakir was surrounded by a group of young hooligans who were jeering and laughing at him. With a shocked exclamation Daoud started toward them. The fakir was not in need of his assistance, however; he began laying about him with his tall staff and cursing fluently. The young villains dispersed and the fakir sat down in the middle of the path, mumbling and dribbling. He wore no turban; long straggling strands of graying hair fell over his face.

"They are bad boys," Daoud said disapprovingly. "He is a very holy man."

"But perhaps a little lacking in his wits?" Nefret suggested delicately.

"His mind is in heaven and only his body remains on earth."

"God be kind to him," Nefret murmured. Something about the weird figure seemed to interest her. She edged closer. "Rather an attractive arrangement of rags. A thing of shreds and patches, or would one call it a coat of many colors?"

"It is called a dilk," said the literal-minded Daoud.

"Hmmm. Oh, I almost forgot—go back, please, and tell Mr. el-Asmar I want another pair of slippers just like the ones I ordered, but in black, and this much shorter." She measured the distance with thumb and finger. "They are for Lia. Her feet are smaller than mine."

Daoud's face broadened in a smile. "Ah! It is a good thought. We will have a grand fantasia when they come, with gifts and music and much to eat."

"We will." She squeezed his arm affectionately. "I'll wait for you here."

After he had edged his large frame through the doorway, Nefret reached into her bag and took out a few coins. Jingling them in her hand, she went to the fakir, who had subsided into a shapeless lump, his hair over his face.

"If that is the odor of sanctity, I'd prefer damnation," she said in a low voice. "Why are your disguises so repulsive?"

"Filth keeps fastidious persons at a distance" was the barely audible reply. "Obviously you aren't one of them. Ruhi min hina, ya bint Shaitan. (Get away from here, daughter of Satan.)"

He dared not look up, but he heard her soft chuckle and her louder response. "How rude!" She dropped the coins at his feet and moved away.

Peering through the matted tangle of hair, Ramses saw Daoud emerge from the shop. Neither of them looked in his direction, but he waited until they had gone a little way before scrambling to his feet and following.