The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (20 page)

I spoke with him . . . You say he is dead?"
"And his wife. The details do not matter," I continued, for I was not anxious to recall some of those details. "What does matter is that someone has learned that Mr. Forth's lost civilization is not a fantasy, and that we alone can lead him to it. We swore we would never disclose its location— "
"Yes, yes, you explained that. Forgive me," Emerson continued, with poisonous politeness, "If I express
a certain degree of skepticism about the whole affair. I told Willie Forth he was mad, and thus far I have seen no evidence that contradicts that judgment. You and your dear friend Vandergelt might have invented this story for reasons of your own."
"You still bear the evidence of someone's interest in your affairs," I said indignantly. "Your bruised head and that horrible beard— "
"What does my beard have to do with it?" Emerson clutched protectively at the appendage in question. "Leave my beard out of this, if you please. I grant you that someone appears to be taking an impertinent interest in my personal affairs, but he was not as specific as you— "
"How could he be? He knows nothing about the place except that it holds incredible riches— "
"Do you always interrupt people when they are talking?"
"No more than you. If people go on and on— "
"I never interrupt," Emerson shouted. "Pray allow me to finish the point I am endeavoring to make."
"Pray make it," I snapped.
Emerson drew a deep breath. "There are a number of individuals who hold grudges against me. I am not ashamed of that, indeed, it is a source of modest pride to me, for in all cases their resentment stems
from my interference with their illegal or immoral activities. I am also, as you may have observed, close-mouthed— discreet— taciturn. I don't tell people everything I know. I don't trumpet my
knowledge to the world. I never speak unless— "
"Oh, good Gad," I exclaimed, jumping to my feet "I quite agree with the premise you are suggesting,
at such unnecessary length: there are undoubtedly dozens of people who would like to murder you for dozens of different reasons. You want evidence that this particular individual is after one particular
piece of information? I will give you evidence. Come with me."
He had no choice but to obey or leave his curiosity unsatisfied, for I was on my way to the door even
as I spoke. Stamping heavily and muttering under his breath, he followed me until I reached my room
and flung the door open.
"Here!" he exclaimed, starting back. "I refuse to— "
Exhilarated, amused, and exasperated, I got behind him and gave him a shove. "If I make a rude
advance you can scream for help. When you see what I have to show you, you will understand why
I prefer not to remove it from this room. Sit down."
Eyeing the canopied bed as if it might extend ruffled tentacles to grasp him, Emerson circled around
it and lowered himself cautiously into a chair. He stiffened when I went to the bed, but relaxed a little after I had taken the box out from under the mattress and handed it to him.
The sight of the contents brought a soft whistle to his lips, but he did not comment until after he had examined both scepters thoroughly, and when he raised his eyes to my face they glittered with the old blue fire of archaeological fever. "If they are fakes they are the finest I have ever seen, and you and Vandergelt have gone to considerable trouble to deceive me."
"They are genuine. We are not deceiving you. Not even Cyrus has seen these, Emerson. He knows no more about the matter than does our unknown enemy, who put together the same clues Cyrus— "
"Unknown? Not to me."
"What?" I cried. "You recognized him?"
"Of course. He had grown a beard and dyed it and his hair, and he looked older . . . which," Emerson mused, "is only to be expected, since he was older. No doubt about it, though. Well, well. This explains why he was so bad-mannered. I could not imagine why he was put out with me, since I had been one
of the few to defend him. What a sad world it is, when greed proves stronger than gratitude and the
lust for gold overcomes friendship— "
"Men are so naive," I exclaimed. "The commonest reaction to favors rendered is resentment, not gratitude. He probably detests you even more than he does those who condemned him. So it was
Mr. Vincey. I thought I recognized his voice."
"You know him?"
"Yes. That is his cat." I indicated Anubis, who was curled up on the sofa. "He asked us— curse his insolence!— to care for the animal while he went to Damascus."
"He certainly was not in Damascus," Emerson said. "Very well, let us get down to business instead of wandering all around the subject the way you women are inclined to do. Vincey is on the loose and it would be extremely careless of us to assume he has given up his little project. He has all the more
reason to be vexed with me now, after I got away from him so neatly. I could . . . What's the matter? Something caught in your throat? Have a glass of water and don't distract me."
It did not seem an opportune moment to remind him that his escape had been neither neat nor due to
his efforts. Choking on my indignation, I remained silent. Emerson went on thoughtfully, "I could track him down, I suppose, but I will be damned if I allow him to interfere with my professional activities any more than he already has. If he wants me, he will come after me. Yes, that will be best. I can get on
with my work, and if he turns up, I'll settle the fellow."
I was meditating how best to respond to this complacent statement when I heard someone approaching. The steps were those of Cyrus, the rapidity of their pace made my scalp prickle with apprehension. He was almost running, and as he neared my door he began to call out.
"Amelia! Are you there?"
"Just a moment," I called, snatching the box from Emerson and hastening to restore it to its hiding place. "What is it, Cyrus? What has happened?"
"Big trouble, I opine. We have found a stowaway!"

*  *  *

As soon as I had the box concealed, I admitted Cyrus. In my excitement I had overlooked the fact that Emerson's presence might cause some embarrassment— particularly to Emerson—until I saw Cyrus's
jaw drop and color flood his lean cheeks. Emerson had gone equally red in the face, but he decided to brazen it out.
"You are interrupting a professional discussion," he growled. "What's all the fuss about?"
"A stowaway," I reminded him. "Who? Where?"
"Here," Cyrus said.
One of the sailors pushed her into the room. One had to assume she was female from her dress, though the worn black robes completely covered her shape and the dusty veil hid all but a pair of terrified dark
eyes.
"It is some poor village woman fleeing a cruel husband or tyrannical father," I cried, my sympathies immediately engaged.
"Hell and damnation," Emerson exclaimed.
Her eyes found him where he sat bolt upright, hands clutching the arms of his chair. With a sudden
effort she tore herself free and flung herself at his feet.
"Save me, O Father of Curses! I risked my life for you, and now it hangs by a thread."
Exaggeration seemed to be in the air that day, I thought to myself. She had tried to keep the murderous guard from entering Emerson's prison, but how could her dread master know of that? Was this even the same woman? Her voice sounded different—huskier, deeper, and with a distinct accent.
"You are safe with me," Emerson said, studying the bent black head with— I was happy to observe—
a rather skeptical expression. "If you speak the truth."
"You doubt me?" Still on her knees, she sat back and wrenched the veil from her face.
I cried out in horror. No wonder I had not recognized her voice, the prints of fingers showed dark on
her bruised throat. Her face was equally unrecognizable, swollen and stained by the marks of brutal blows.
"This is what he did to me when he learned you had escaped," she whispered.
Pity had not altogether wiped out my suspicions. "How did he learn ..." I began.
Replacing the veil, she turned to me. "He beat me because I had shown compassion and because . . . because he was angry."
Emerson's face was impassive. Those who had never beheld a demonstration of the seething sea of sentiment his sardonic exterior conceals might have believed him to be unmoved,- but I knew he was thinking of the child-woman he had been unable to save from her murderous father.* Nothing of this showed in his voice when he said gruffly, "Find her a room, Vandergelt. God knows you've enough useless space on this boat."
She kissed his hand, though he tried to stop her, and followed Cyrus out. Frowning, Emerson took out
his pipe. I heard Cyrus summon his steward after directing the fellow to show the lady (he stumbled a
bit over the word, but I had to give him credit for the effort) to a vacant stateroom, he returned.
"Are you loony, Emerson? The da— er— darned woman's a spy."
"And her bruises were incurred in an effort to give verisimilitude to an otherwise unconvincing story?" Emerson asked dryly. "How devotedly she must love her tormentor."
Cyrus's lean face darkened. "That's not love. It's a kind of fear you'll never know."
"You are right, Cyrus," I said. "Many women know it— not only the helpless slaves of a society such
as this, but Englishwomen as well. Some of the girls Evelyn has taken in off the streets ... It does you credit, Cyrus, that you can understand and sympathize with a condition so alien from any you could
ever have experienced."
"I was thinking of dogs," Cyrus said, blushing at my praise but too honest to accept it when it was undeserved. "I've seen 'em come fawning back to the feet of the varmint that had beaten and kicked them. You can reduce a man to that state too, if you go about it right."
Emerson blew out a great cloud of blue smoke. "If you two have quite finished your philosophical discussion, we might try to settle this matter. The girl's arrival raises another point which I was about
to make when Miss— er— Peabody got me off the track. Vincey may not be the only one involved."
Cyrus expressed surprise at the name, and I took it upon myself to explain. "I thought at the time his voice was familiar, Cyrus, but he had disguised his appearance so well I could not be certain. Emerson has just now confirmed my assumption, and I suppose he could hardly be mistaken. Do you know
Mr. Vincey?"
"By reputation," Cyrus replied, frowning. "From what I've heard I wouldn't put such a trick past him "
"He certainly was not the only one involved," I went on. "Abdullah claims to have killed at least ten
of the enemy."
This little sally produced a smile from Cyrus, but not from Emerson. "Local thugs," he said curtly.
"Such men can be hired in any city in Egypt or in the world. The girl is another such tool. Vincey has
an unsavory reputation as regards women."
"Women of the— of that class, you mean," I said, remembering Vincey's grave courtesy toward me,
and remembering as well Howard's veiled hints about his reputation. Repressing my indignation, I went on, "I find your use of the word 'tool' interesting. She may still be serving him in that capacity. Cyrus is right— "
"I am not so naive"— Emerson shot me a malignant glance— "as to accept the girl's story unreservedly.
If she is a spy, we can deal with her. If she is telling the truth, she needs help"
"Must have been a good-looking woman before he got to work on her," said Cyrus.
This apparent
non sequitur
, which was of course nothing of the kind, did not escape Emerson. His
teeth showed in a particularly unpleasant smile. "She was, yes. And will be again. So behave yourself, Vandergelt, I don't allow distractions of that nature to interfere with my expeditions."
"If it were up to me, I'd kick her off the boat tonight," Cyrus declared indignantly.
"No, no. Where's that famous American gallantry? She stays." Emerson turned the singularly unpleasant smile on me. "She will be company for Miss Peabody."

*  *  *

After they had gone, I gathered up a few things and went to the woman's room. The door was locked from the outside, but the key was in the lock. I turned it, announced my presence, and entered.
She was sprawled across the bed, still swathed in her dusty black robe. It was with some difficulty that
I persuaded her to discard it, and she refused to allow me to attend to her injuries, so I handed her the clean nightgown I had brought and allowed her to attend to her ablutions in private. When she emerged from the bathroom she seemed startled to see me still there. Averting her face and cringing like the dog with which Cyrus had compared her, she hurried to the bed and got under the covers.
"I don't know what we are to do about clothing," I said, hoping to put her more at ease by discussing a subject that seldom fails to interest females. "My traveling wardrobe is not extensive enough to equip
you as well."
"Your gowns would not fit me," she muttered. "I am taller than you, and not— not so— "
"Hmph," I said. "I will procure fresh robes for you when we stop at the next town, then. This one is filthy."
"And a veil— please! It would hide me from watching eyes."
I doubted it would prove a sufficient disguise to deceive the man she feared so desperately, but since
my aim was to soothe her and win her confidence, I decided not to raise unpleasant subjects. Under
my tactful questioning she unbent so far as to tell me something of her history.
It was a sad story and, sadly, not uncommon. The child of a European father and an Egyptian mother, she had fared better than the offspring of most such alliances, for her German father had at least had
the decency to provide a home for her until she reached the age of eighteen. His death left her at the mercy of his heirs, who disclaimed any responsibility and denied any relationship. Her efforts to support herself in a respectable occupation had been frustrated by her age and her sex, while employed as a housemaid she had been seduced by the eldest son of the family and cast out onto the street when his parents discovered the affair. Naturally they blamed her and not their child. She had used the last of her savings to return to the land of her birth, where she found her maternal relatives as hostile as those of
her father, alone and despairing in Cairo, she had met . . . HIM.
Seeing she was trembling with fatigue and agitation, I bade her rest. Her reticence could not be allowed
to continue indefinitely, of course. I was determined to know all she knew. But that could wait till
another time and, perhaps, a more persuasive questioner.
When we tied up for the night I sent one of the servants to the village bazaar to purchase clothing for Bertha—for such, she claimed, was her name. It certainly did not suit her, conjuring up (to me at least) images of blond Germanic placidity.
I had not achieved my aim of picking Bertha's brain by the time we arrived at our destination. Emerson refused to have anything to do with the matter. "What can she tell us— that Vincey is a brute, a liar, and
a seducer of women? His past activities, criminal or otherwise, are of no interest to me, I am not a police officer. His present address— even supposing he were fool enough to return to any location known to her— is equally irrelevant. When I want the bastard, I will find him. Just now I don't want him. I want
to get on with my work, and I will do it, come hell or high water, miscellaneous criminals, or female busybodies!"