The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (26 page)

Nefret, who prided herself on her ability to brew the thick dark Turkish coffee, started another pot; Selim leaned back and lighted a cigarette; Daoud gave me a questioning look.

Ramses was soon back, carrying the box in which we had stored the artifacts. Emerson pulled up a small table and drew one of the lamps closer. He unwrapped the objects and passed them one by one to Selim, who examined them carefully before handing them to Daoud.

"You are right, Father of Curses," Selim admitted. "They are as good as any fakes I have seen. There is no mistake in the writing?"

"No," said Ramses. "But—" He broke off as Cyrus came back to the table.

"Took me a while to find it," he explained. "Can I see those?"

He inspected them as closely as Selim had done. "All right, I give up," he said at last. "What's wrong with 'em?"

"Nothing," Ramses said. He lined them up on the table: two scarabs and a small statue of a male figure wearing a strange tight-fitting garment and an odd little skullcap. "We got the leftovers," he said. "The best pieces were snapped up as soon as they appeared on the market, which was, as nearly as we can determine, in late spring of last year. The scarabs, like the one that was stolen from us, are made of faience. Molded, in other words, from a substance that isn't difficult to manufacture. It would not require a great deal of artistic talent to take a mold from a known piece and change certain details that would add to its historic value."

"What is your point, Ramses?" I asked.

"Only that that sort of artifact could be produced by a person who knew the history and the hieroglyphs but who would not have to have unusual artistic talent. So could the figurine. It is carved of alabaster, a relatively soft stone, and the simplicity of the forms of the garment and cap make Ptah perhaps the easiest of all the gods to sculpt. The face and hands are conveniently scratched and worn, you observe, and the scepter he carries has been broken off."

"Hmmm," I said. "Cyrus, you look like the cat who has swallowed a canary. What is it?"

"I admire your reasoning, young fellow, and I sure hate to knock it down," Cyrus said. "But maybe you'd better have a look at this."

Carefully he unwrapped the cotton wool enclosing the object. At first glance there was nothing particularly impressive about it— a small, rather lumpy seated figure carved of a brownish substance. Before I could get a closer look, Emerson rudely snatched it from Cyrus's hand.

"Hell and damnation," he remarked and handed it, not to me, as I might reasonably have expected, but to Ramses.

"Let me see!" Nefret, less conscious of her dignity than I, came up behind Ramses and leaned against him so she could look over his shoulder. "I don't understand," she said, after a puzzled look. "What is so remarkable about it?"

"Would you care to see it, Mother?" Ramses asked. Very gently he lifted the little hand that rested on his shoulder and leaned forward.

"The dealer said this was from Abdullah's collection?" Emerson asked.

"Yep." Cyrus grinned.

"It is ivory," Ramses said. "The image is that of a king wearing the White Crown and the close-fitting mantel assumed during certain ceremonies."

"How old is it?" I asked, intrigued. "Or rather, how old is it supposed to be?"

"No doubt about that," Ramses said. "There is a line of hieroglyphs on the base. No cartouche—they didn't use them at that date—only a royal title and a name. The Horus Netcherkhet."

"Zoser," said Cyrus. "Third Dynasty, builder of the Step Pyramid. There's only one other statue of him known. Well, Emerson, my friend?"

Emerson reached for his pipe. "Vandergelt, I apologize. This would have taken me in too. The details of costume and technique, even the hieroglyphs, are entirely accurate for the period. How he aged the ivory I don't know; put it through a camel, perhaps. How much did you give for it?"

"Less than it was worth if it's genuine, far too much if it isn't." Cyrus's grin faded.
"I
don't want to call anybody a liar, but let me just ask one question. Has anybody talked to David about this business?"

"No." Ramses took it upon himself to answer. "We ought to have done so, perhaps, but with the wedding less than a week away. .."

"It may have been an error, but it was kindly meant," Katherine murmured.

I decided to intervene, since we were getting off the track. "You still harbor doubts, Cyrus. Look at it this way. The man who sold these objects was not David, and that means he selected David as a scapegoat, and that means he is a forger and a criminal. The logic is inescapable."

"Ah,"
said Cyrus.

"And that," said Emerson dogmatically, "means your ivory king is a forgery. The digestive tract of a camel—"

"Yes, sure," Cyrus said. "All the same, my friends, I believe I will take very good care of this little object until you've had that delayed chat with David."

They have not the
flair
for self-governance, but they are fine fighting men, when led by white officers.

From Manuscript H

The message came the day before Christmas. It was only a note from one of the antiquities dealers in Cairo saying he had the gift he had been asked to find, and Ramses would have thought nothing of it if it had been directed to his mother. However, the messenger had insisted on delivering it personally into his hands, and said he had been instructed to wait for a reply.

Ramses scribbled a few words on the back of the note and went looking for Nefret.

How she and his mother had persuaded, bullied or bribed Emerson to close down the dig for a few days he didn't know; he suspected Nefret had painted a pathetic picture of a suffering, tight-lipped Ramses concealing two broken legs and several cracked ribs. What they really wanted was time to prepare for a sentimental English Christmas. Mysterious parcels filled every cupboard and drawer, the smell of spices wafted from the kitchen, and the two of them had hung lanterns and ribbons and palm branches and other tasteless objects all over the house. He found Nefret in the courtyard, perched precariously on top of a long ladder tying a bit of greenery to one of the arches.

"Where the devil did you get that?" he asked in surprise. Mistletoe was not indigenous to Egypt.

He steadied the ladder as she scrambled down. "In Germany. The berries kept falling off, so I put pins through them. It should be inaugurated, don't you think?" Standing on tiptoe, she pulled his head down and kissed him on the mouth.

As a rule he managed to avoid those generous, agonizing, sisterly kisses. This time she was so quick he hadn't time to move, or even turn his head. Knowing it meant nothing to her, he did his best not to respond, but when she stepped back her eyes were puzzled and her cheeks a little pinker than usual.

"Aesthetically and horticulturally it lacks a certain something," he said, glancing up at the withered leaves and blackened berries. "But I suppose it's the thought that counts. If you have quite finished playing the little woman, come over here where Mother can't hear. I've something to tell you."

She was quick to reach the same conclusion he had reached. The flush in her cheeks deepened and her eyes sparkled with excitement. "I take it you did not ask Aslimi to find a rare and beautiful and very expensive antiquity as a Christmas gift for me or Aunt Amelia?"

"I ought to have done, oughtn't I?" A wrinkled globule bounced off his head and onto the floor.

"Don't be silly. It's an assignation! When?"

"I sent back to say I'd come at once."

"Not alone."

"There's not the least risk."

"Then there's no reason why I can't go with you. Come to the Professor." She took his hand and pulled him toward the stairs.

Emerson was in his study working on his notes. When Nefret burst in, without knocking, he looked up with a frown. It deepened into a formidable scowl when she explained.

By that time Ramses knew he wasn't going to get away without Nefret. The problem now was to keep his father from accompanying them. If what he suspected was true, Nefret's presence would be excellent camouflage and it wouldn't frighten their correspondent away, but Emerson was another matter. He stood out in the suk like a lion in a herd of deer, and Wardani had no reason to trust him.

"What makes you think the message is from Wardani?" Emerson demanded. "Aslimi was one of the dealers we questioned about the forger."

"Why would Aslimi be so roundabout? Wardani promised to let me know if he found out anything; he would have to do it indirectly, and this is unlikely to rouse suspicion: a harmless visit to the suk, in broad daylight."

"And it's even less likely to arouse suspicion if I am with Ramses," Nefret added.

Emerson gave in, but he insisted they take two of the men with them. Ramses didn't object to that; the Egyptians weren't as conspicuous as his father and he could order them to stay at a distance.

"Try to be back before your mother notices your absence," Emerson said with a sigh. "If she should ask I will tell her where you have gone—as I may have mentioned before, absolute candor between husband and wife is the only possible basis for a successful marriage, but—"

"We understand." Nefret kissed him on the cheek and danced away—to get her hat, as she claimed.

"Look after her," Emerson muttered.

"Yes, sir."

Nefret looked particularly demure in a flower-trimmed hat and long linen coat, spotless white gloves, and a pair of frivolous bow-trimmed slippers. As they walked along the dusty tree-lined road toward the station, she slipped her hand through his arm and moved closer. He shortened his steps to match hers.

"Thank you, my boy."

"What for?"

"For letting me come along. Without so much as an argument!"

"Just don't use that knife unless you must."

"Knife? What knife?"

He turned his head and looked down at her. Nefret grinned. "Yes, sir. How would you define 'must'?"

Ramses pretended to ponder the question. "When I'm bleeding to death at your feet and someone has both hands round your neck."

"Oh, all right. I can manage that."

He kept a wary eye out and a hard grip on her arm as they made their way through the crowded streets of the suk. Hassan and Sayid had been told to stay well behind and not enter the shop. Aslimi was engaged with a customer, to whom he was trying to sell a flagrantly fraudulent amulet. He started violently and turned pale when he saw them. That wasn't evidence of anything in particular except that Aslimi was a miserable little coward and a rotten conspirator.

The poor devil was so petrified, Ramses had to carry on both sides of the conversation. "That object you found ... Ah, in your office? We'll just go back and wait till you've finished with this gentleman. Take all the time you like. We're in no hurry."

Wardani was sitting at Aslimi's desk with his feet on a chair. Rising, he bowed to Nefret and nodded at Ramses. "Bolt the door, please. Welcome, Miss Forth. I had not expected you, but it is a pleasure to meet you at last."

"You were listening at the door," Ramses said, drawing the bolt.

"Looking through the keyhole," Wardani corrected, with a flash of white teeth. He was wearing European clothing and steel-rimmed eyeglasses; beard and hair were a dusty gray. He examined Nefret with an interest that verged on insolence, but did not quite go over the line, and waved her to a chair. "Please sit down, Miss Forth. It was clever of you to bring her, my friend; I should have suggested it myself. No gentleman would allow a lady to accompany him if he anticipated violence."

Nefret settled herself in the chair with a thump. "I can be just as violent as Ramses, Mr. Wardani, and it was I who insisted on accompanying
him.
You have news for us?"

"The best of news, which is that there is none," Wardani said. He took out a heavy silver cigarette case and offered it to Ramses, who had taken up a position behind Nefret's chair. It would not have occurred to him to offer it to a woman. Ramses watched, with considerable amusement, as Nefret plucked a cigarette from the case. "Thank you," she said.

"Not at all," said Wardani, recovering with admirable aplomb. "You will forgive me if I do not offer you coffee. I would rather not linger; Aslimi is supposed to be one of us, but he is such a coward he may betray me out of pure hysteria."