The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (6 page)

FROM MANUSCRIPT H

The second meeting with Wingate was shorter than the first, and somewhat more acrimonious. Wingate wanted more details about a number of people Emerson was not anxious to discuss, and the roles they had played; when he asked about their dealings with “a certain gentleman named Smith,” Emerson lost his temper. (He had been itching to do so for some time.) “Good Gad, man, if you don’t know who the bastard is and what he’s up to, how should we? Come, Ramses; we have wasted enough time telling people things they ought to have known anyhow and going over and over facts that are either self-explanatory or irrelevant.” The new high commissioner took this rudeness better than Ramses had expected. Now in his sixties, he had had a long and illustrious career as governor of the Sudan, and Ramses got the impression that he was finding it harder to deal with his peers in Cairo than with rebellious Sudanese. As Emerson stalked out of the room, Wingate said mildly, “Thank you for your time, gentlemen,” and returned to his papers. “That’s that,” Emerson declared. “It’s high time we got out of this bloody city. Is Nefret ready to leave?” On the morning of their departure Nefret and Ramses breakfasted alone in their room, at what struck Ramses as an obscenely early hour. “I need all the time I can get at the hospital,” she declared. “Since Father is determined on leaving today.” “He’d have put it off again if you had asked him.” “I couldn’t do that. He’s on fire to get to Luxor and catch a few tomb robbers. There was no need for you to get up so early. You don’t have to escort me.” “Would you rather I didn’t?” “You can if you like.” Frowning slightly, she concentrated on the piece of toast she was cutting into strips. “It’s boring for you, though. You hardly said a word the other night when we dined with Sophia and Beatrice.” “I’m sorry,” he began. “Don’t apologize, damn it!” She put her knife down and gave him a rueful smile. “There’s no need for you to be so defensive, darling. I didn’t mean it as a reproach. You couldn’t have got a word in anyhow! It was rude of us not to include you in the conversation.” “That’s all right.” The pronouns jarred, though. Us and you. “I think I will come along, if you don’t mind. There’s someone I want to see, if I can find him.” “Who?” He described his encounter with Musa as they walked through the ornate lobby and out the door of the hotel. “You didn’t tell me,” Nefret said, and then laughed and took his arm. “You couldn’t get a word in, could you? Sophia told me about el-Gharbi’s being arrested. Did you know he had put the word out that we were not to be bothered?” “I thought he might have done.” “I never supposed I would regret the arrest of the worst procurer in Cairo.” Her face was troubled. “But Sophia says things have got worse. More injuries, and fewer of the women are coming to us.” “Musa wants me to intervene on behalf of el-Gharbi. Shall I try to get him out?” “Could you?” “Do you want him out?” “Oh, I don’t know,” Nefret said despairingly. “How does one choose between two evils? Leave it alone, darling. I don’t want you getting involved with the police again. Russell would try to recruit you for some rotten job, and I won’t allow it.” “Russell’s sticking to ordinary police work these days. There’s a new military intelligence organization — or will be, if they ever get it right. They keep shuffling people around. Clayton and the Arab Bureau are now —” “How did you find that out?” Her eyes narrowed and her voice was sharp. “From Wingate, for the most part. Plus odds and ends of gossip here and there.” “Oh, very informative. Ramses, I don’t care who is doing what with whom, so long as ‘whom’ isn’t you. Promise me you’ll stay away from them. All of them.” “Yes, ma’am.” Her tight lips relaxed into one of her most bewitching smiles, complete with dimples, and as a further inducement to good behavior, she told him she would be back in time for luncheon. Ramses watched her run lightly up the steps and in the door before he turned away. Could he get el-Gharbi paroled? The answer was probably no. Unless . . . the idea hadn’t occurred to him until Nefret asked. It had probably been Thomas Russell who reeled him in. If he could persuade Russell that el-Gharbi had information that could be of use to him . . . The answer was still no. Russell wouldn’t make a deal with someone he despised as much as he did the procurer. Anyhow, there were only two questions Ramses would like to have answered: the whereabouts of his infuriating uncle, and the identity of the man who had sold the artifacts to Aslimi. El-Gharbi had once had contacts with every illegal activity in Cairo, but drugs and prostitution were his chief interests; he dealt with illegal antiquities and espionage only when they impinged on his primary business. Musa was nowhere to be found, so Ramses spent a few hours wandering through the green groves of the Ezbekieh Gardens, to get the smells of el-Wasa out of his system. It was a little after midday when he returned to the hotel. Nefret was not there, so he went to see what his parents were doing. He found his mother alone in the sitting room, placidly working at a piece of embroidery. Wondering what had prompted this unusual exercise — she hated sewing and did it very badly — he joined her on the sofa. “Where is Father?” he asked. “He took Sennia for a walk, in order to work off some of her energy. Have you finished packing?” “No,” Ramses admitted. “Nefret told me I mustn’t, she says I always make a mess of it.” “Just like your father. His notion of packing is to dump the entire contents of a drawer into a suitcase and then throw his boots on top.” “What’s wrong with that?” Ramses asked, and got a smile in return. “I’ll ask Gargery to take care of it,” she promised. “That’s all right, Nefret said she’d be back before luncheon. I suppose you are all ready?” “Certainly.” She looked searchingly at Ramses. “Is something wrong? You seem somewhat pensive.” “No, nothing is wrong. I’m sorry if I . . .” Her steely gray stare remained fixed on him, and he felt a sudden need to confess. His mother’s stare often had that effect on people. “I’m jealous — oh, not of another man, it’s even worse. Jealous of the hospital and the time she spends there. Contemptible, isn’t it, that I should resent Nefret’s skills and interests?” “Quite understandable,” his mother said calmly. She poked her needle into the piece of fabric, muttered something, and wiped her finger on her skirt. Ramses noticed that the skirt and the embroidered fabric were spotted with blood. “Do you want her to give up her medical work?” “Good God, no! I’d hate her to do that on my account. I’d hate myself if she did.” “She will have to make a choice, though. While we were working at Giza she could spend a certain amount of time at the hospital, but it appears we will be in Luxor for some time to come.” “Someone will have to make a choice.” His mother dropped her fancywork and stared at him. “You don’t mean you would give up Egyptology!” “Nothing so drastic. I can always get a position with Reisner, at Giza.” She looked so horrified, he put his hand over hers. “I don’t want to work with anyone but Father, you know that. But I have to be with her and I want her to be happy. Why should I expect her to give up her work when I’m not willing to make a reasonable compromise?” “Honestly, Ramses.” His mother gave him a look of exasperation. “I would expect any son of mine to appreciate the talents and aspirations of women, but you are carrying fairness to a ridiculous extreme. What makes you suppose Nefret wants to abandon archaeology? Have you asked her?” “No. I didn’t want —” “To force the issue? Well, my dear, Nefret is not the woman to keep her opinions to herself. You are leaping to unwarranted conclusions and tormenting yourself about something that will never happen. It is a bad habit of yours.” “D’you really think so?” “I am certain of it.” She hesitated, but not for long. Indecision was not one of his mother’s weaknesses. “She once told me something that perhaps you should know. ‘I would leave the hospital forever, without a backward glance, if it would help to keep him safe.’ ” “She said that?” “I do not claim to remember the precise words, but that was unquestionably the gist of her remark. Goodness gracious, Ramses, don’t look so stupefied. If you are really unaware of the strength of your wife’s affection, you have not been paying her the proper attentions.” He didn’t dare ask what she meant by that. Her prim circumlocutions always amused him, but he said humbly and without a smile, “You are right, Mother, as always. I haven’t said anything to her, and I never shall. Please don’t tell her.” “Why, Ramses, I would never betray another individual’s confidence.” She patted his hand. He flinched, and she let out an exclamation of distress. “Oh, dear. I forgot I was holding the needle. Suck it.” Ramses dutifully obeyed. “What is that you’re making?” he asked. It was hard to tell the bloodstains from the pattern. “It’s just a little something to keep my hands occupied. Stop fretting, dear boy, I will talk to Nefret myself. Tactfully.” She stuck the needle into the fabric and folded her work. “It is past time for luncheon. Emerson is late as usual.” He turned up a few minutes later, with Sennia, and dropped rather heavily into a chair. Emerson could work under the hot Upper Egyptian sun from dawn until sunset without any sign of fatigue, but a few hours with Sennia left even him worn out. “Are we ready for lunch?” he asked. “Nefret isn’t back yet,” his wife said. Ramses had been watching the clock. It was after one. His father gave him a critical look. “Is she waiting for you to fetch her?” “No,” Ramses said, and went on, before his father could voice his opinion of a man who would allow his wife to walk the alleys of el-Wasa unattended. “I expect she’s got involved and lost track of the time. The rest of you go down, I’ll run over to the hospital.” He wasn’t worried — not really — but she knew they were due to leave that evening, and she had said she’d be back before luncheon. He took the most direct way to the hospital, the one they always followed, expecting at every turn of the street to see her hurrying toward him. The foul alleys were deserted; the denizens were indoors, resting during the heat of the day. Anger, born of concern, quickened his steps. She had no business worrying him like this, after he had done her the courtesy of leaving her free of his escort. He had almost reached the hospital when a man stepped out into his path. “You must come with me, Brother of Demons.” “Get out of my way, Musa. I haven’t time to listen to el-Gharbi’s compliments.” “You must!” the other man repeated. He held out his hands. Stretched between his palms was the filmy scarf Nefret had worn round her neck that morning. Seeing Ramses’s expression, Musa jumped back a few feet and began to babble. “Do not strike me, Brother of Demons, she is not hurt, she is safe, I will take you to her.” “Damned right you will.” Ramses’s hand shot out, catching Musa’s stringy arm in a bruising grip. “Where is she?” “Come. Come with me, it is not far. She is unharmed, I tell you. Would any of us dare injure —” “Shut up. Which way?” Knowing he was no longer in imminent danger of violence, Musa said plaintively, “You are hurting my arm, Brother of Demons. I can walk faster if you do not hold on to me. I will not run away. I was ordered to bring you to her.” Ramses didn’t bother to ask who had given the order. He released his grip and brushed at the enterprising fleas that had already found his hand. “Where?” “This way, this way.” Musa trotted ahead, around a corner and through a pile of discarded fruit rinds and peelings that squelched under his bare feet. “This way,” he said again, and turned his head to nod reassuringly at Ramses. “Do you have a cigarette?” “Don’t push me too far, Musa.” He was no longer worried about Nefret, though. The man who must be responsible for this would not harm her. They ended up where Ramses had expected: in an outstandingly filthy alley behind the house el-Gharbi had once occupied. Musa went to the small inconspicuous door Ramses remembered from earlier visits. The police had barricaded it with heavy boards, but someone had removed most of the nails; Musa pulled the planks aside and climbed through the opening. The house that had once been alive with music and the other colorful accompaniments of a contemptible trade was dark, deserted, and dusty. The windows had been boarded up, the rich furnishings removed or left to molder. There was a little light, streaking through cracks in the boards. When they reached the room in which el-Gharbi had held court, Ramses made out a massive shape squatting on the ruined cushions. Nefret sat next to him. A ray of sunlight sparked in her hair. “Sorry,” she said cheerfully. “I did it again.” Ramses got the words out through lips unsteady with relief. “Not your fault this time. Another black mark against you, el-Gharbi. What do you mean by this?” “But, my dear young friend, what choice had I?” The voice was the well-remembered high-pitched whine, but as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, Ramses saw that the procurer was dressed in a ragged galabeeyah instead of his elegant white robes. He didn’t appear to have lost any weight, though. Shifting uncomfortably, he went on, “You would not come to the camp. You would not have come to me here — so I invited your lovely wife. We have been having a most enjoyable conversation. Sit down, won’t you? I regret I cannot offer you tea —” “What do you want?” Ramses interrupted. “Why, the pleasure of seeing you and your lovely —” “I don’t have timefor this,” Ramses said rather loudly. “You cannot keep us here against our will, you know.” “Alas, it is true.” The procurer sighed. “I do not have the manpower I once had.” “What is your point, then?” “You won’t sit down? Oh, very well. It is the camp, you see. It is no place for a person of refinement like myself.” A shudder of distaste ran through the huge body. “I want out.” “You are out,” Ramses said, unwilling amusement replacing his annoyance. El-Gharbi was unconquerable. “Only for a few hours. If I am not there tonight when they make the rounds, that rude person Harvey will turn out every police officer in Cairo to look for me. I do not intend to
spend the rest of my life running away from the police, it is too uncomfortable.” “Yes, I suppose it would be. Can you give me one good reason why I should intercede on your behalf, even if I were able?” “But my dear young friend, surely the many favors I have done for you —” “And I have done several for you. If the score is not even, the debt is on your side.” “I was afraid you would see it that way. What of future favors, then? I am at your command.” “There is nothing I want from you. Nefret, let’s go. The parents will be getting anxious.” “Yes, of course.” She rose. “Good-bye, Mr. el-Gharbi.” She used the English words, possibly because the Arabic terms of farewell invoked a blessing or an expression of goodwill. El-Gharbi didn’t miss the implications. He chuckled richly. “Maassalameh, honored lady. And to you, my beautiful young friend. Remember what I have said. The time may come . . .” “I hope to God it won’t come,” Ramses muttered, as they left the room. “Nefret, are you all right?” “Musa was very polite. No damage, darling, except . . .” She scratched her arm. “Let’s hurry. I expect Father is frantic by this time, and I’m being devoured by fleas.” “That makes two of us.” “My poor darling. What you suffer for me!” The narrow back door was still unbarred. Ramses did not bother replacing the boards. Taking the coward’s way out, he sent a servant to the dining saloon to announce their return, and they went straight to their room and the adjoining bath chamber. When he emerged, wearing only a towel, his father was sitting in an armchair, pipe in hand. “Where is she?” he demanded. “Still bathing. I’ll tell her you’re here.” “Oh,” said Emerson, belatedly aware of his intrusion on their privacy. “Oh. Er —” Ramses opened the door to the bath chamber and announced his father’s presence. Water splashed and Nefret called out, “I’ll be with you in a few minutes, Father.” It wasn’t often that Ramses could embarrass his father and he was rather inclined to enjoy those moments. Emerson was blushing. “You’ve been the devil of a long time,” he complained. “We are due to leave in a few hours, you know.” “It couldn’t be helped.” Ramses dressed as he told Emerson what had happened. He expected an outburst; Emerson had nothing but contempt for procurers in general and el-Gharbi in particular. Instead of shouting, Emerson looked thoughtful. “I wonder if he knows anything about — um — Sethos.” “I didn’t ask. I don’t want to be in his debt, and I was in a hurry to get away. It’s highly unlikely, Father. The illegal antiquities trade was only a sideline, and he’s been shut up in Hilmiya for weeks.” “Hmm, yes.” Emerson brooded. The door of the bath chamber opened and Nefret appeared, wreathed in steam. She was wrapped in a long robe that covered her from chin to bare feet, but Emerson fled, mumbling apologies. Getting my family onto the train — any train — is a task that tries even my well-known patience. Emerson had sent Selim and Daoud on to Luxor a few days earlier, to survey the site and determine what needed to be done. That left seven of us, not counting the cat, who was more trouble than anyone. The railroad station is always a scene of pure pandemonium; people and luggage and parcels and an occasional goat mill about, voices are raised, and arms wave wildly. What with Horus shrieking and thrashing around in his basket, and Sennia trying to get away from Gargery and Basima so she could dash up and down the platform looking for acquaintances, and Emerson darting suspicious glances at every man, woman, and child who came anywhere near him, my attention was fully engaged. The train was late, of course. After I had got everyone on board and in the proper compartment, I was more than ready for a refreshing sip of whiskey and soda. Removing the bottle, the gasogene, and the glasses from the hamper, I invited Emerson to join me. As I could have told him — and indeed, did tell him — it had been a waste of time to look for Sethos. He never did the same thing twice, and he had had ample time to communicate with us had he chosen to do so. Emerson said, “Bah,” and poured more whiskey. I had dispatched telegrams to the Vandergelts and to Fatima, our housekeeper, informing them of the change in schedule, but being only too familiar with the leisurely habits of the telegraph office in Luxor, I was not surprised to find that no one was waiting to meet us at the station. No doubt the telegrams would be delivered later that day, after the unofficial telegraph, gossip, had already announced our arrival. It did not go unremarked. There were always people hanging about the station, meeting arrivals and bidding farewell to departing travelers, or simply wasting time. A great shout went up when the loungers recognized the unmistakable form of Emerson, who was — I believe I may say this without fear of contradiction — the most famous, feared, and respected archaeologist in Egypt. Some crowded round and others dashed off, hoping to be the first to spread the news. “The Father of Curses has returned! Yes, yes, I saw him with my own eyes, and the Sitt Hakim his wife, and his son the Brother of Demons, and Nur Misur, the Light of Egypt, and the Little Bird!” It took some little time to unload our “traps,” as Emerson called them, and get them from the station to the riverbank and onto the boats which would take us across. I managed to arrange matters so that Sennia was in one boat, with Basima and Gargery in close attendance — it required at least two people to hang on to her and keep her from falling overboard — and Emerson and I in another. On this occasion I wanted to be alone with my dear husband. “Ah,” I exclaimed. “How good it is to be back in Luxor.” “You always say that,” Emerson grunted. “I always feel it. And so do you, Emerson. Breathe in the clear clean air,” I urged. “Observe the play of sunlight on the rippling water. Enjoy once again the vista before us — the ramparts of the Theban mountains enclosing the sepulchres of the long-dead monarchs of —” “I suggest you write a travel book, Peabody, and get it out of your system.” But his arm went round my waist and his broad breast expanded as he drew a long satisfied breath. After all, there is no place like Thebes. I did not say this, since it would only have provoked another rude comment from Emerson, but I knew he shared my sentiments. The modern city of Luxor is on the east bank, together with the magnificent temples of Karnak and Luxor. On the west bank is the enormous city of the dead — the sepulchres of the long-dead monarchs of imperial Egypt (as I had been about to say when Emerson interrupted me), their funerary temples, and the tombs of nobles and commoners, in a setting unparalleled for its austere beauty. The stretch of land bordering the river, fertilized by the annual inundation and watered by irrigation, was green with growing crops. Beyond it lay the desert, extending to the foot of the Libyan mountains — a high, barren plateau cut by innumerable canyons or wadis. For many years we had lived and worked in western Thebes, and the house we had built was waiting for us. I moved closer to Emerson and his arm tightened around me. He was looking straight ahead, his clean-cut features softened by a smile, his black hair wildly windblown. “Where is your hat, Emerson?” I asked. “Don’t know,” said Emerson. He never does know. By the time I had located it and persuaded him to put it on, we were landing. Fatima had not received our telegram. Not that it mattered; she had been eagerly awaiting us for days, and the house was in its usual impeccable order. I must say that our relations with Fatima and the other members of Abdullah’s family who worked for us was somewhat unusual; they were friends as well as servants, and that latter word carried no loss of dignity or implication of inferiority. Indeed, I believe Fatima thought of us as sadly lacking in common sense and of herself as in charge of the entire lot of us. My first act, after we had exchanged affectionate greetings with Fatima, was to inspect our new quarters. The previous winter a remarkable archaeological discovery had necessitated our spending some months in Luxor. Our old house was then occupied by Yusuf, the head of the Luxor branch of Abdullah’s family, but he had amiably agreed to move himself and his wives and children to an abode in Gurneh village. It had not taken me long to realize that the house was no longer commodious enough for all of us to live in comfort and amity. I had therefore ordered several subsidiary structures to be added. In spite of Emerson’s indifference and total lack of cooperation, I had seen the work well under way before our departure, but I had been obliged to leave the final details to Fatima and Selim. I invited Fatima to accompany me on my tour of inspection. Selim, who had been awaiting us, came along, not because he wanted to, but because I insisted. Like his father, he was never quite sure how I would respond to his efforts along domestic lines. Abdullah had been inclined to wax sarcastic about what he considered my unreasonable demands for cleanliness. “The men are sweeping the desert, Sitt,” he had once remarked. “How far from the house must they go?” Dear Abdullah. I missed him still. At least he had tried, which was more than Emerson ever did. In fact, I found very little to disapprove, and Selim’s wary expression turned to a smile as I piled compliment upon compliment. The new wing, which I intended for Sennia and her entourage — Basima, Gargery, and the cat — had a number of rooms surrounding a small courtyard, with a shaded arcade along one side and a charming little fountain in the center. The new furniture I had ordered had been delivered, and while we were there, one of the maids hurried in with an armful of linens and began to make up the beds. “Excellent,” I exclaimed. “All it needs is — er — um — well, nothing really, except for some plants in the courtyard.” “We thought we should leave that to you, Sitt,” said Selim. “Yes, quite. I enjoy my gardening.” I meant to make a few other changes as well, but they could wait. The others were still in the sitting room, with several other members of the family who had turned up, including Kadija, Daoud’s wife, all talking at once and doing absolutely nothing useful. I made a few pointed remarks about unpacking, to which no one listened, dismissed Selim, and asked Nefret to join me and Fatima for the rest of the tour. She had seen only the unfinished shell of the second house, which was situated a few hundred yards away. The intervening space would be filled in with flowering plants, shrubs, and trees as soon as I could supervise their planting and cultivation. Just now it was desert-bare, but the structure itself looked very nice, I thought, its mud-brick walls plastered in a pretty shade of pale ocher. My orders had been carried out; the interior was as modern and comfortable as anyone could wish, including an elegant bath chamber and a small courtyard, enclosed for privacy. As we went from room to room I found myself chattering away with scarcely a pause for breath, pointing out the amenities and explaining at unnecessary length that any desired alterations could be accomplished quickly and easily. Nefret listened in silence, nodding from time to time, her face unsmiling. Finally she said quietly, “It’s all right, Mother,” and I got hold (figuratively speaking) of my wagging tongue. “Dear me,” I said somewhat sheepishly. “I sound like a tradesperson hoping to sell a house. I beg your pardon, my dear.” “Don’t apologize. You mean this for us, don’t you — for Ramses and me. You didn’t tell me last year that was what you intended.” “My intentions are not relevant, Nefret. It is entirely up to you. If you prefer to stay on the dahabeeyah, as you used to do, that is perfectly all right. But I thought . . . It is some distance from our house, you see, and once I have the plantings in place they will provide additional privacy, and we would not dream, any of us, of intruding without an invitation, and —” “Can you imagine Father waiting for an invitation?” Nefret inquired seriously. “Or Sennia?” “I will make certain they do,” I said. “It is a beautiful house. But a trifle large for two people, perhaps?” “D’you really think so? In my opinion —” “Oh, Mother!” Laughter transformed her face, from shining blue eyes to curving lips. She put her arm round me, and Fatima, who had listened anxiously to the exchange, broke into a broad smile. Nefret gave her a hug too. “It is a beautiful house,” she repeated. “Thank you — both of you — for working so hard to make it perfect.”