The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (47 page)

"Aywa. Yes, Sitt Hakim."

She placed the bowl tenderly on the table. It appeared to be a somewhat exotic version of a trifle, wobbly with custard and cream and jelly. Bits of unidentified fruits stuck out from it.

"I don't think I can eat that, Emerson," I said out of the corner of my mouth.

"We'll take it with us," Emerson declared. "Parcel it up, Fatima."

"Parcel it—"

"Put it in a bag or a box or something," Emerson said. "The children will enjoy it."

I rather looked forward to seeing Emerson striding down the road toward the quay with a bowl of trifle tucked under one arm. He would have done it, too, but for Fatima; she turned pale with horror at the idea and insisted on sending Ali with us to carry the box in which she had wedged the bowl. The poor lad had to trot to keep up with Emerson's long strides, and we were followed all the way to the
Amelia
by little gasps and squawks as Ali juggled the awkward thing.

As Emerson says, one can always count on a touch of comic relief in our family.

There was no creeping up on the plotters unannounced, for we were observed approaching by an alert guard and hailed in a loud voice. When we got to the saloon, where they were finishing dinner, both young men were on their feet and all three faces wore insincere smiles of welcome. The unpacking of the trifle—a good deal of which had slopped over the sides of the bowl—occasioned some mirth. Karima scraped the remains onto plates, and in duty bound we all ate some of it.

Emerson soon began to fidget. He is not a patient man, and he had a great deal on his mind. Since I did not want Karima and the other servants to overhear, I managed, with little nudges and winks, to keep the conversation on casual subjects until after we had retired to the upper deck for coffee, and Karima had left us alone.

Lia had already expressed her pleasure at seeing us—"so unexpectedly"—and I had already apologized for breaking my own rule about dropping in uninvited. I did not doubt all three knew there was some purpose in our coming; the only question in my mind was whether Ramses would confess before his father accused him.

Emerson did not give him time, supposing he had intended to. "What the devil are you up to now?" he demanded.

The disadvantage of the ambience was that I could not make out their faces clearly. Candles in pottery bowls shone softly, but gave little light. I saw only Ramses's hands as he put his cup down on the nearest table. They were always scratched and scraped, for, like his father, he is forgetful about wearing gloves when he is digging.

"I suppose I should apologize for not confiding in you and Mother," he said. "I gave my word I would not."

"Be damned to that," said Emerson.

"Yes, sir."

"Was it Wardani who swore you to secrecy?"

"No, sir."

"We had better confess," David said, over the low rumble from Emerson that betokened an imminent explosion.

"I wish you would," Lia murmured. "I hate keeping secrets, especially from Aunt Amelia and the Professor."

"Ha!" said Emerson. "Well, Ramses?"

It was as if, having made up his mind to speak, Ramses was anxious to unburden himself (or possibly he was anxious to get it over so he could go about whatever business he had planned for that night).

"I have been working for Mr. Russell, who is attempting to put an end to the traffic in drugs. One of the persons involved is rumored to be an Englishman. David and I have been trying to infiltrate one of the gangs in order to learn who this man is. Thus far—"

I could contain myself no longer. "Russell, did you say? Confound the man, I told him in the most decided terms that you were not to be a policeman!"

"Police spy," Ramses corrected. "Why mince words? Perhaps you now understand why I did not inform you. There's not much point in being a spy if everybody knows you are one."

"We are not everybody," said his father, unmoved by the bitterness in his voice—or so I believe, until Emerson added, "And there is no shame in spying if it is for a worthy cause. Where did you get the idea that an Englishman was involved?"

"Wardani. It occurred to me that he might have invented it, just to make mischief—he's quite capable of that—but the rumors are out there. We've heard them for ourselves." His head turned toward me and he added seriously, "Where there is smoke there is fire, you know."

There is no doubt that confession is good for the soul, depending, of course, on who is confessing and to whom. Ramses leaned back and lit a cigarette; his father took out his pipe; Lia poured coffee; and David let out a long breath. "I don't mind admitting I'm glad to have it off my chest," he said ingenuously.

"Hmmm," said Emerson, sucking on his pipe. "You still have some way to go. Tell me what steps you have taken."

Originally Mr. Russell had concentrated on the coast, trying to confiscate the cargoes as they were unloaded. As Ramses had mentioned earlier, this was a hopeless task, for the area was extensive. "It seemed to me," Ramses continued, "that it made better sense to try and intercept the stuff when it entered Cairo. It might come by water, up one of the arms of the Nile, or overland. In either case it would end up in a warehouse or shed or some other storage area, awaiting distribution to the dealers."

"More than one such storage place, surely," said Emerson, who was listening with keen interest. "Common sense would suggest they change the locale periodically."

"Not if they had no reason to believe it was suspected,"

Ramses argued. "Even so, pinning down a specific location would be difficult. So I started from the other end—the local distributors. I managed to get a position in one of the hashish dens—"

"How did you manage that?" Emerson asked curiously.

"I started a fight. It wasn't difficult; some of the lads become combative as the night wears on. After I had pitched my unfortunate victim out into the alley and expressed my regret for the disturbance, the owner offered me a job as lookout. It didn't take long to figure out the schedule of deliveries and identify the deliverers. To make a long story short, I worked my way up the ladder until I was taken on as one of the laborers who meet the incoming shipments."

"So you've located the warehouse?" Emerson inquired. He sounded a little envious, I thought.

"One of them. That wasn't what I wanted, though, and it finally occurred to my slow wits that I was never going to get past a certain point. There is a great gap between the people who handle the stuff and the people who finance the business, and only a few points of contact between them. I was racking my brain trying to think how to bridge the gap when David found out what I was doing."

"I owe Wardani a debt for enlightening me," David said. "You wouldn't have told me."

"There's no need to go into that," Ramses said. "It was David who came up with the brilliant idea of setting up a police ambush, so that we could save the shipment and become heroes. Russell approved the scheme; so David joined the group, on my recommendation, and when the attack occurred we gave our all for the cause. We'd planned exactly what we would do and it went off rather well; in all the pandemonium and in the dark nobody could really tell who was hitting whom. In the end David and I and our immediate superior were the only ones left standing, and we dashed off with the hashish. Bleeding copiously, of course, and covered with bruises."

Emerson chuckled. Ramses picked up one of the little pottery lamps and used it to light a cigarette. The glow illumined his face and David's; both had a look of reminiscent amusement that made me want to shake them. I wanted to shake Emerson too, for laughing. Men are incomprehensible to me at times.

"So," said Emerson, "what next?"

"Next comes a spot of eavesdropping," said his son. "We will never be admitted to the inner councils, but because of our extraordinary heroism we are considered trustworthy; people don't always guard their tongues when we are around. There is a meeting tonight we must attend. We haven't been invited, so we will have to hang about in the hope of hearing something interesting. It will take a little time to get into position, so if you will excuse us—"

"Not quite yet," said Emerson, slowly and distinctly. "There is something more, isn't there? No, don't tell me;
I
will tell
you.
You and David wouldn't waste your time on police business unless it were connected with our other problems. It's the same man, isn't it? How did you make the connection? Is he also using David's name?"

After a moment Ramses said, "Yes, to both. Sir—"

"Confound you, Ramses, don't you see that attempting to keep me in the dark is not only a waste of time but devilish dangerous? It is for your sake that I insist on knowing the truth, my boy."

The speech that had begun in anger ended in appeal. That Ramses felt its effect I did not doubt; he bowed his head and murmured, "Yes, sir, I know. I apologize."

"Well, never mind," Emerson grunted. "This
is
an unpleasant state of affairs! The bastard seems determined to incriminate David one way or another. It cannot be a personal vendetta; David hasn't an enemy in the world. Er—have you, David?"

"No, sir. I think he got the idea of using my name when he sold the forgeries simply because it gave them a believable provenance. Why not continue to use it in his other business arrangements? I doubt the fellow holds a particular grudge against me; I was a convenient scapegoat because of my nationality and my background, that's all."

"As simple as that?" I exclaimed.

"As simple and as deadly," said Ramses. "We are accustomed to dealing with enemies who hate us for personal reasons. This is a motive we have never encountered and a kind of enmity we've never had to face. I think David is right; this bas—this man chose to victimize him not because of
who
he is but because of
what
he is—a member of an 'inferior' race who has, moreover, dared to demonstrate his intellectual superiority and violate the rules against intermarriage. What makes this mental aberration even more dangerous is that it is shared by those who will be David's judges—if it should come to that."

Emerson growled deep in his throat. "It won't come to that."

"I'm not worried," David said firmly. He took the hand Lia held out to him. "No suspect ever had a more impressive array of allies."

"Quite right," I said. "We'll find the bas—the villain, never fear."

"Well spoken, Mother," Ramses said. "Now that we've settled that—"

"One more thing." Emerson turned to David. "Have you heard from any of the European dealers to whom you wrote?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. I had asked for a description of the artifacts in question, if you recall. I got a letter today from Monsieur Dubois in Paris. He was somewhat perturbed."

"I can well imagine," Emerson grunted. "I presume he insists that the article was genuine."

"Exactly. As he pointed out, the seller and the provenance may have been spurious, but that doesn't prove the artifact was. He sent a photograph."

"Oh? What was it?"

"You'd better see for yourself, sir. I had intended to show it to you tomorrow, but so long as you are here ..."

David got to his feet. Emerson followed suit. "We'll go down to the saloon where the light is better. It's time we were getting along home, anyhow."

The saloon was not nearly so cluttered as it had been in my day, possibly because there was only one male person cluttering it up. The removal of all but two of the desks had actually left room for a dining table. Lia had replaced several of the rugs. When she saw me looking at them she said nervously, "I do hope you don't mind, Aunt Amelia. Some had rather large holes in them."

"From Emerson's pipe." I nodded. "My dear child, this is your home now. Make any changes you like."

David had found the photograph. Emerson snatched it up with a muffled expletive. "Let me see," I said, and tugged at his hand.

At first I could not make out what the objects were. There were four of them, their size indeterminable because no scale had been provided. Then Emerson said, "Carved animal legs—bulls' legs. Ivory?"

"So M. Dubois said. It's a little difficult to make out from the photograph."

"Inlaid," Emerson muttered, his finger tracing the outline of the oval base. "Curse it, this cannot be—"

"Gold and lapis lazuli. Have you ever seen anything like them?"

"Yes," said Emerson in an abstracted voice. "Oh, yes. May I take this along?"

"Certainly, sir."

Emerson straightened, the photograph in his hand. His eyes met those of Ramses. "Go on about your business, then," he said gruffly. "If you aren't here tomorrow morning I will just run into Cairo and ask a few questions of... whom?"

Ramses mentioned a name, which meant nothing to me. Emerson appeared to recognize it, however. He nodded. "So he's one of them. I'm not surprised. Good night. And good luck."

The night was overcast and a damp wind tugged at my skirts. Emerson did not appear to be in any hurry; his pipe in one hand, my hand in the other, he strolled in a leisurely fashion; and when we reached the house he gestured at the mastaba bench outside the door. "Sit down for a moment, Peabody. I want to discuss something with you."

"A fitting punishment for Mr. Thomas Russell? Honestly, Emerson, when I think of his going behind my back to—"