Lord of the Silent: A Novel of Suspense (6 page)

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In the old days I had been in the habit of giving a little dinner party soon after our arrival in Egypt, to greet friends and catch up on the news. I had not the heart for it that year. Many of our friends were gone, into a better world or into retirement; many of the younger generation had gone to war; and for the first time in many seasons our closest friends, Cyrus and Katherine Vandergelt, were not in Egypt. Cyrus was American and too old for military service in any case (though I would not have cared to be the one who told him so), but Katherine was English by birth and her son Bertie had been one of the first to volunteer. After several minor injuries which had not prevented him from returning to the front, he had been wounded in the leg, arm, chest, and head by an exploding shell and was making a slow but steady recovery, nursed by his mother and sister and supplied by Cyrus with every comfort money could buy. The war was over for him, thank heaven, but at what a cost! Indeed, a celebration would have been inappropriate. However, I felt it my duty to reestablish relations with various acquaintances who were still in the city. The phrase "idle gossip," which Emerson employed, was just one of his little jokes. It is necessary to know what is going on. I had been out of touch for many months; nowhere was the press controlled as tightly as it was in Egypt, and even letters from friends were reduced to illegibility by zealous censors. I had asked Nefret if she and Ramses would like to join us, but I was not surprised when she politely declined. So we went alone to Cairo, my dear Emerson and I. As I said to him, we were company enough for one another. Except for the predominance of khaki, the dining salon of Shepheard's was much the same. Fine wines and rich food, snowy damask and sparkling crystal, dark-skinned servants darting to and fro, male civilians in the stark black and white of evening kit, females flaunting jewels and satin. The display struck a particularly offensive note for me that evening. No one admires a stiff upper lip more than I, but these people were not displaying courage under fire. They were in no danger here. Boys were dying in the mud of France while they sipped their wine and enjoyed the servile attentions of the individuals whose country they had occupied. Having enjoyed this interlude of moral superiority, I decided I might as well take pleasure in the moment, as is my habit. Some of the old familiar faces were there--Janet Helman dressed with her usual elegance and good taste, Mrs. Gorst and her daughter Sylvia, who waved at me with her left hand to make sure I saw the diamond-and-ruby ring on her third finger. Even the plainest girl had no difficulty getting engaged these days, with so many young officers passing through Cairo. A man who expects to be facing death in the near future is not overly fastidious. I said as much to Emerson, who gave me one of those superior masculine looks that reprimanded me for malicious gossip even as his well-shaped lips parted in a grin. He had never liked Sylvia, who had been one of Ramses's most tireless pursuers until his marriage, and who could have taken a prize for gossip. I did not really expect to see any of our archaeological acquaintances, so you may conceive of my surprise and pleasure when I beheld a familiar form standing in the doorway of the dining salon. Howard Carter's face was fuller and his mustache bushier, but otherwise he had not changed much since we had first met him. At that moment he resembled a statue of stupefaction, his eyes wide and his mouth ajar. Not until the headwaiter glided up and addressed him did he give himself a little shake. He questioned the waiter, who nodded and led Howard to our table. "Why, Howard," I exclaimed. "What are you doing here?" "Looking for you. I heard this afternoon that you were in town, and hoped I might run into you here, since I knew Shepheard's is one of your favorite spots." He accepted my invitation to join us, but he kept glancing over his shoulder. "Are you in trouble with the law?" I inquired jestingly. "I have just had a most unnerving experience, ma'am. Thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. You don't happen to have a double, do you?" I requested elucidation of this extraordinary question, and Howard indicated a table near the door. "The lady dining with those two staff officers, the one wearing a green dress. She's the spit and image of you, Mrs. Emerson. I was about to speak to her when I saw you and the Professor and realized I was mistaken." Curiosity overcame propriety. I stared shamelessly at the lady. Owing to our relative positions, I could see only the back of her head and her shoulders. The latter were covered by a wide lace bertha, and the head by black hair piled high and held by jeweled combs. There was something very familiar about that dark hair. I said, "Confound it," and Emerson chuckled. "Well, well," he said. "I believe I can hazard a guess. Miss Minton has turned up again." Anticipating Howard's question, he explained. "We encountered the young lady some years ago when she was writing newspaper stories-it was that nonsensical business about the British Museum mummy. I was struck at the time by the resemblance between her and Mrs. Emerson, but it is pure coincidence; Miss Minton is the granddaughter of the late Duke of Devonshire, and no relation to my wife. She has made something of a name for herself since as a journalist specializing in Middle Eastern affairs." "Yes, of course," Howard exclaimed. "I remember now. Isn't she the one who was captured by one of those Arab emirs a few years ago? Wrote a book about it. Can't say I've read it." "You were among the few who did not," I said with a sniff. "It was immensely successful, which is not surprising since it was a perfect example of yellow journalism-sensational and exaggerated." "Come now, Peabody, that isn't fair," Emerson expostulated. "The reviewers hailed it as a shrewd analysis of relations between the warring desert chieftains." "That isn't what sold the book. It was her lurid descriptions of the Emir's harem and his women, and his-er-his advances to her." "Really? Did he-uh-" "According to Miss Minton," I said, "he was about to overcome his scruples, such as they were, when she was rescued by a handsome, dashing, mysterious hero." Emerson choked on his wine. After recovering himself, he exclaimed, "Peabody! It wasn't-it couldn't have been-" "No, Emerson, it couldn't have been," I said. "I don't believe in her mystery man or in her highly colored version of her relations with the Emir. She wasn't captured; she walked into Hayil-rode, rather-in search of a story and I expect Ibn-Rashid evicted her when he tired of her interminable questions. Let us turn to more important subjects. Why aren't you in Luxor, Howard?" Howard opened his mouth, but before he could reply, Emerson said, "Yes, why aren't you? I hear that the local thieves are at it harder than ever-digging at Drah Abu'l Naga and even stealing statues from Legrain's magazine at Karnak." "Where did you hear that? Oh-Selim, I suppose. He would know; half the crooks in Gurneh are friends and kin of his. It's not as bad as all that, Professor. Your tomb hasn't been touched, if that is what's worrying you." More precisely, the tomb was that of Queen Tetisheri, which we had discovered and cleared several years earlier. We had removed the funerary equipment-and a deuced difficult job it had been-but there were painted reliefs of superb quality in one chamber, and thieves had been known to cut out fragments of such reliefs for sale on the illegal antiquities market. They were popular with collectors. "Have you been in it?" Emerson demanded. "No one's been in it, sir, since you locked the gates and refused to give up the keys to the Service des Antiquites." Howard grinned appreciatively. He had had a falling-out with the Service, which had resulted in his losing his position as Inspector of Upper Egypt, and he thoroughly approved of Emerson's high-handed behavior. "Then how do you know it hasn't been molested? Curse it," Emerson added. I got Emerson off the subject by asking about Howard's recent work in the Valley of the Kings-one of the valleys, that is to say, for there are two of them. The East Valley is the one visited by tourists. The West Valley is seldom visited, for it contains only two royal tombs, both isolated and in bad repair. Howard had spent several weeks exploring one of them. This proved to be a mistake on my part. Emerson had yearned to work in the Valley himself; after years of frustration watching the inept excavations directed by Mr. Theodore Davis of America, he had seen the concession given to another wealthy dilettante, Lord Carnarvon. In my opinion Emerson was a trifle unjust to this gentleman, who was far more conscientious than Davis had been, and who had the good sense to hire Howard to carry out the actual digging; but it was still a sore subject. Dismembering his dinner with wild slashes of his knife, Emerson demanded details which he refused to allow Howard to give, interrupting him after almost every sentence. "You had no business starting on that tomb if you meant to spend only a month at it. Amenhotep the Third was one of Egypt's greatest kings and his tomb could provide vital information about a particularly important period." "Well, sir, you see-" "At least there are tourists and a few token guards in the East Valley. Nobody ever goes to the West Valley. Nobody except vandals and thieves; now that you've aroused their interest, they've probably removed everything of value that you overlooked. How far did you get?" "The entrance corridor and the well-" "Yes, and what happened to the objects you found? Carnarvon's got them, I suppose." "Enough of that, Emerson," I said. "This is a social occasion-at least it would be, if you would leave off badgering the poor man. Have a glass of brandy, Howard." "Thank you, ma'am, I believe I will." Surreptitiously Howard wiped his perspiring brow. "May I smoke?" "Certainly. Now tell us what you are doing in Cairo." Howard looked mysterious, or tried to. "I can't talk about it, Mrs. Emerson." "Ah," I said. "Intelligence. I am sure you are making yourself useful." "You would be of more use in Luxor guarding the tombs," said Emerson. "Damnation! I am tempted to make a quick trip there myself." "One must do what one can for the war effort," Howard protested. The poor man looked so uncomfortable I attempted to change the subject. "Howard, do you happen to know of any unemployed Egyptologist who is looking for a position?" "Why, are you taking on new staff?" "No," said Emerson, who had been holding his breath and was thus able to forestall me. "Curse it, Amelia, I thought we had agreed to think the matter over before we took steps." "I have thought it over, Emerson. You see, Howard, David, and Lia are not coming out this year. Without them we will be short-handed, and we can always use a skilled copyist." "Ah, yes," Howard said. "Someone told me they would not be with you. They had a child last year, I believe. Is that why Todros has deserted you?" Gossip, gossip, I thought. Men love it, no matter what they say. I hastened to clear David of the imputation of disloyalty, but I could tell by Howard's cynical smile that he considered a wife and child an inadequate excuse. "I wish I could offer my own services," he said. "But I am committed to Lord Carnarvon, and I expect to be occupied with-er- other duties. I will put the word out, though I don't know offhand of anyone." We parted soon thereafter and I managed to get myself and Emerson out of the room without our being seen by Miss Minton. I had a feeling we would hear from her before long, however. She was too good a journalist to let go her hold on a source. When we passed the dock on our way home we saw there were lights in the saloon of the Amelia. Emerson brought the motorcar to a jolting stop. "They are still awake. What do you say we drop in and-" "No, my dear." "Ramses will want to know what Carter said about-" "Emerson, this is their first evening alone. I expect Ramses will have other things on his mind." However, when we got to the house we found them waiting for us in the drawing room. "Ah," said Emerson, shooting me a triumphant look. "I felt certain you would want to hear the news. What about a final whiskey and soda, eh? We ran into Carter-" "Do be quiet, Emerson," I exclaimed. My intuition is seldom at fault, and I had known at once that they had news of graver import than ours. "Something has happened. What?" "Nothing to worry about," Ramses said. "I tried to persuade Nefret it could wait until morning, but she insisted we come." "A spot of whiskey is definitely in order," Nefret said grimly. "That bad, is it?" I inquired, taking the glass Emerson handed me-for he had proceeded to act on his own suggestion. Ramses reached for his, and I remarked, "You are favoring your right arm. Another shirt ruined?" Ramses let out a sputter of laughter, and Nefret's tight lips relaxed. "Trust you, Mother, to put the matter in proportion," she said. "Not only a shirt, but his best linen coat. No, Ramses, you are not allowed to speak; you'll try to make light of it, and I won't have that. I will tell them." Ramses listened in silence, his eyes moving from her expressive face to the equally expressive movements of her slim hands. He did not interrupt; it was Emerson who exclaimed, "Hell and damnation, Ramses! Why didn't you defend yourself? You deliberately let him-" Ramses shrugged. "It was only poor Asad trying to be heroic. He scuttled off as soon as he'd made his point." "Was that a pun?" I inquired. "Inadvertent," said Ramses. "Stop that," Emerson bellowed. "Both of you. All right, Nefret, go on. The assassin burst into tears, and Ramses consoled him? I suppose you then took him somewhere for coffee and a chat? Good Gad!" "Not exactly," Nefret said. "The fellow broke down completely. He was weeping into his hands, and Ramses was patting him on the shoulder-leaving bloody prints all over his robe, I should add. He'll probably keep it as a sacred relic." "Wait just a minute," Emerson said, rubbing his chin. "I confess I am having some difficulty taking all this in. Asad. Wardani's lieutenant? You had a sneaking sympathy for the fellow, I believe?" "Yes." Ramses leaned forward, cradling his glass in his hands. "He was the best of Wardani's lot-a scholar, not a man of action, and the bravest of them all because he went on with the job despite his fear. He'd developed a certain . . . attachment to me. Only, of course, he didn't know it was me. Can you imagine what a shock it must have been for him to learn he had been deceived by an impostor, that all his devotion and loyalty and-and admiration had been lavished on a man who had deceived him and betrayed the cause in which he believed? He had to do something to prove his manhood. Now he's