The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (25 page)

glimpse showed me what I had feared to see.
The man emerged from behind a pile of boulders which Emerson had just passed. Noiseless on bare
feet, his dirty white robe almost invisible against the pale limestone of the rock walls, he launched
himself at Emerson's back. The sunlight struck blindingly from the knife in his hand.
"Emerson!" I screamed. "Behind you!"
The echoes rolled from cliff to cliff. Emerson spun around. Mohammed's upraised arm fell. The knife found a target, Emerson staggered back, raising his hand to his face. He kept his feet, though, and Mohammed, arm raised to strike again, circled warily around him.  He was not fool enough to close
with Emerson, weaponless and wounded as he was.
Needless to say, I had continued to move forward as fast as possible. I was of course carrying my parasol. It required no more than a second or two to realize it was not the weapon I wanted. I could
never reach them in time to prevent another blow. Tucking the parasol under my arm, I pulled my revolver from my pocket, aimed, and fired.
By the time I came up to Emerson, Mohammed was long gone. Emerson was still on his feet, leaning against a spur of rock. His upraised arm was pressed against his cheek. Since he never has a handkerchief, I deduced he had substituted his shirt sleeve for that useful article, in an attempt to
staunch the blood that was turning the left side of his beard into a sticky mass and dripping down
onto his shirt front.
Between agitation, extreme speed of locomotion, and relief, I was panting too heavily to articulate. Somewhat to my surprise Emerson waited for me to speak first. Over his unspeakable sleeve his eyes regarded me curiously.
"Another shirt ruined," I gasped.
The intent blue orbs were veiled, momentarily, by lowered lids. After a moment Emerson muttered,
"Not to mention my face. What were you shooting at?"
"Mohammed, of course."
"You missed by a good six yards."
"The shot achieved the desired effect."
"He got away."
"I resent the implied criticism. Sit down, you stubborn man, before you fall down, and take your dirty sleeve away from your face in order that I may assess the damage."
It was not as bad as I had feared, but it was bad enough. The cut ran from cheekbone to jaw, and it
was still bleeding freely. My handkerchief was obviously inadequate for the task at hand. I unbuttoned
my jacket.
"What the devil are you doing?" Emerson asked, alarm overcoming his momentary faintness as I cast
the garment aside and began unfastening my blouse.
"Preparing bandages, obviously," I replied, removing the blouse. Emerson hastily closed his eyes, but
I think he was looking through his lashes.
It was a deuced awkward wound to bandage. He looked rather like a half-finished mummy when I was done, but the flow of blood had almost stopped.
"At least you will balance now," I said, reaching for my jacket. "This will match the scar on your other cheek "
Emerson squinted at me through half-closed lids. "It will have to be stitched up at once," I went on
"And thoroughly disinfected."
Emerson sat bolt upright and glowered at me. He tried to say something, but the bandages I had wound around his jaws made articulation difficult. I understood the word, however.
"I fear I have no choice, Emerson. It is necessary to shave the scalp before treating a head wound, you know, the same is true of a wound on the face. But cheer up, I will only have to cut half of it off."

CHAPTER 10

"The worse a man is, the more profound bis slumber,
for if he had a conscience, be would not be a villain."

In the midday stillness the sound of the shots had echoed far, and, as I later learned, our friends had already noted our absence and begun searching for us. When we emerged from the entrance to the
wadi I saw Abdullah approaching, at a speed I would never have believed he was capable of attaining. When he saw us he stopped and stared, and then crouched on the ground, covering his head with his arms. He remained in that position, motionless as a statue, until we came up to him.
"I have failed," said a sepulchral voice from under the folds of fabric. "I will go back to Aziyeh and
sit in the sun with the other senile old men."
"Get up, you melodramatic old fool," growled Emerson. "How have you failed? I did not hire you as
a nursemaid."
This is Emerson's idea of affectionate reassurance. He went on without waiting for a reply. The others were in sight now, led by Cyrus, so I allowed him to proceed without me. Slowly Abdullah rose to his
full height. He does relish drama, as do most Egyptians, but I saw that his dignified face was drawn
with shock and remorse. "Sitt Hakim," he began.
"Enough of that, my friend. Allah himself could not stop Emerson when he is determined to do
something stupid. He owes you his life. I know that, and so does he, it is just that he has a rather unconventional way of expressing the gratitude and affection he feels for you."
Abdullah's face brightened. Finding the sonorous and dignified vocabulary of classical Arabic inadequate for my feelings, I added in English, "We will just have to watch him more closely, that is all. Curse the man, there are times when he is more trouble than Ramses!"

*  *  *

Fortunately Emerson was feeling rather feeble, so it only required ten minutes of concentrated shouting
to persuade him to return to the dahabeeyah— though not until after he had lectured Rene and Charles about how to proceed with the excavation and insisted Abdullah stay with them to supervise. He would not lean on Cyrus or on me, but when Bertha approached him— any emotion she might have felt effectively concealed by her veil— he accepted the arm she offered.
In silent efficiency she assisted me in my medical endeavours until I began stitching the wound. Fortified by brandy and bullheadedness, Emerson uttered not a sound during this process, which I did not enjoy
a great deal either. When I finished I saw the girl crouched in a corner with her back to me.
"Strange how squeamish some people are about needles," I said musingly, cutting lengths of sticking plaster.
"Yes, isn't it," said Cyrus, turning around. "Why don't you let me finish that, Amelia? It can't have
been a pleasant experience for you— "
"Ha," said Emerson, still supine.
"It will only take a moment," I replied. "You see how impossible it would have been to apply sticking plaster over all those whiskers, though."
Emerson immediately declared his intention of returning to work. After some rather noisy discussion he finally agreed to rest for the remainder of the day on condition we left him strictly alone. I closed his
door, as he had requested, and then at last I allowed a sigh to escape my lips.
"My poor girl," Cyrus said gently. "How courageously you performed your painful duty."
"Oh, I am quite accustomed to stitching Emerson back together. But Cyrus— it was such a near thing! We cannot go on this way, fending off one attack after another. A good offense is the best defense.
We must take the aggressive!"
Cyrus tugged at his goatee. "I was afraid you were going to say that. You're as bad as he is, Amelia.
This is the second time you've snuck away and driven me to the brink of heart failure. I'm doing my
level best to protect you— "
"I am aware of that, Cyrus, and appreciative of your concern, though if you will allow me to say so,
the role of a poor little woman in need of male protection does not suit me."
It was Cyrus's turn to sigh. "Okay. Just do me the favor of letting me in on your schemes, will you?
What do you propose to do now?"
"I am going to the village."
"Then I am going with you."
We had a nice little chat with the mayor. He threw up his hands in horror when I told him what had occurred, invoking every saint in the Moslem calendar, starting with the Prophet himself, he protested
his innocence and that of the village as a whole. I assured him we would never, as some tyrannical authorities had been known to do, punish an entire community for the misdeeds of one man. I then proceeded to make him an offer he could not refuse.
We were climbing down the bank toward the gangplank before Cyrus recovered his voice. "Dead or alive? A reward is a bully idea, Amelia, but did you have to say— "
"That was just Arabic rhetoric," I assured him. "It sounded more emphatic."
"It sure did. 'His head in a basket' carries a lot of punch."
"I made it clear I preferred him alive. But I will take what I can get."
Shaking his head, Cyrus went off to his quarters and I looked in on Emerson. He was sleeping soundly, which I had expected, because I had slipped a soupc,on of laudanum into his water bottle. With my
mind at ease on that point I proceeded to my room, not to rest, as I had promised Cyrus, but to
consider my next move.
I had my strategy worked out by the time the weary workers returned from the dig. The most difficult part was to decide whom to take into my confidence, and to what extent. I did not count on any cooperation whatever from Emerson, but I hoped by one means or another to induce him to discuss his intentions with regard to the excavation. Cyrus, I feared, had not entirely abandoned his charming but absurd idea of protecting me, so I would have to find means of eluding his attentions when it did not suit me to accept them. Men are frightful nuisances at times,- how much simpler life would be if we women did not have to make allowances for their little peculiarities.
Simpler, but not nearly so interesting. The sight of my now-beardless spouse, scowling at me across the dinner table, caused a thrill to run through my limbs and reminded me that no effort was too great to preserve him from peril. To my regret I had been forced to cover up the dimple in Emerson's chin,
which he detests and which I cherish, strips of sticking plaster also disfigured the bridge of his nose and his upper lip. But the strong jaw was at last exposed, the magnificent modeling of one cheek at least was visible to my fond gaze.
I was about to compliment him on the improvement in his appearance when Cyrus entered, apologizing for his tardiness and looking rather sheepish. I dropped my napkin.
"Cyrus! You have shaved off your goatee!"
"A gesture of sympathy," said the American, glancing at Emerson.
"Wasted," said Emerson. "You ought to have stuck to your guns, Vandergelt, as you Americans say.
You look ridiculous."
"Not at all," I said, considering the effect. "I approve, Cyrus. You have a fine, well-shaped chin. Indeed, you look ten years younger."
Emerson immediately changed the subject, demanding of Rene an account of the afternoon's work.
"You were right, Professor," Rene said. "The second structure appears to be exactly the same size as
the one adjoining it, five meters wide by ten deep. The plans are identical— four rooms in all. Into one room, where we found a hearth with a patch of smoke-blackened plaster above it, a part of the ceiling
had fallen. It was of matting covered with mud plaster— "
"The roof, not the ceiling," snapped Emerson. "The houses had only one story. Stairs led to the roof, which was open but used for additional living and storage space. Charles— what about the other house?"
Again Emerson's surmise had been accurate. The structure was larger and more complex in plan than
the smaller houses, the enclosure wall formed its south and east sides. After further discussion Emerson announced, "There can be no question about it. The larger house is that of an overseer or official. What we have is a workman's village surrounded by an outer wall and laid out with a regularity that indicates
it was designed and built as a unit instead of growing haphazardly like ordinary towns. Petrie found a similar arrangement at Lahun,- as I told him, it must have been occupied by the men who constructed
and maintained the pyramid near it." Attempting to curl his lip at Cyrus— a gesture whose effect was somewhat mitigated by the strips of sticking plaster framing that part of his face—he added, "You see, Vandergelt, Akhenaton was not such a fool after all. Our village was inhabited by the workmen who decorated the tombs, and by necropolis guards, and the location could not have been bettered— midway between the two groups of nobles' tombs and not far from the entrance to the wadi where Akhenaton's own sepulcher was located."
This dogmatic pronouncement (which later excavations proved to be entirely correct) provoked no contradiction, but neither did it inspire enthusiasm in the hearers. Cyrus expressed the general reaction when he remarked, "Shucks, Emerson, we're not going to find anything interesting in a poor workers' village. I hope to goodness you don't want to excavate the whole place. It would take all winter."
"A typical dilettante's opinion," said Emerson with his usual tact. "We know almost nothing about ancient Egyptian domestic architecture, even less about how the ordinary people lived. Historically a discovery
of this nature is far more important than a looted tomb, of which we already have too many examples."
"I quite agree," I said. "Having once begun, we ought to do the job properly, and produce a definitive publication which would include a comparison of our village with the one at Lahun."
I knew Emerson had no intention of doing this, but that he would go on arguing so long as Cyrus differed with him. Rather than find himself in agreement with me, he was forced to backtrack.
"I never intended the excavation of the village to be other than exploratory," he said with a frown.
"As soon as the overseer's house has been cleared and properly recorded, we will move elsewhere."
Charles shriveled visibly. I gave him a reassuring smile. "The boundary stelae?" I inquired. "That should certainly be our next project."
"Oh, you think so, do you?" Emerson glowered at me. "The boundary stelae can wait. I intend to work next in the royal wadi."
He obviously expected me to protest, so I did. Men are so easy to manipulate, poor things. When I
gave in, with poor grace, Emerson thought he had won his point, whereas I knew I had won mine. Whither he went, we would go— all of us. There is safety in numbers— a trite saying, but like most
trite sayings, right on the mark.
After dinner Charles and Rene asked permission to go to the village. It boasted a coffee shop of sorts, where the men spent the evenings, fahddling and lounging around, here, Charles explained with charming candor, he and Rene hoped to improve their command of the language and strengthen friendly relations with the villagers. I gave them a brief motherly lecture on the dangers of excessive friendliness with a certain section of the population. It embarrassed them very much, but I would have felt negligent in my duty had I not done so.
Cyrus and I retired to the saloon for a council of war. I invited Emerson to join us, but he declined and went stamping off to his room, which was what I had intended. He had lost a considerable quantity of blood and needed to rest. Besides, I wanted to discuss certain subjects with Cyrus in private.
"I have decided to take you fully into my confidence, Cyrus," I began. "I hope you believe that I have
not been deterred by lack of faith in your discretion or in your friendship I have sworn an oath of secrecy which I cannot and will not break, but the facts I am about to impart to you will, I suspect, tell you nothing you have not already deduced."
With equal gravity he responded, "Let me set your conscience at rest, Amelia, by telling you what I already know. I guess I'm not the only one to have figured it out, either. Those of us who were acquainted with Willie Forth knew about his lost civilization. Heck, the problem was to keep him from boring us to death talking about it. Then you and Emerson come back from Nubia last spring with a young female who you announce is Willy's daughter. By itself that doesn't mean shoot, she could have grown up among poor harmless missionaries, as you claimed. But when some character goes to the trouble of snatching Emerson and makes references to a recent trip you folks made, I reckon he's not looking for directions to a Baptist mission. Add to that his wanting to collect you and young Ramses and the girl, and a shrewd operator like Cyrus Vandergelt can't avoid the conclusion that maybe poor old crazy Willie Forth wasn't crazy after all."
"Expressed with your customary acumen, Cyrus," I exclaimed. "It would be disingenuous and disloyal
of me to deny the fact itself, though I can give you no further details."
"Unbelievable," Cyrus murmured. There was a faraway gleam in his eye. "I thought it must be true,
but to hear you say so ... And the place is all Willie claimed it was—a treasure house of antiquities and golden ornaments?"
"It holds enough, at least, to make it worth looting. That is why Emerson and I swore never to betray
its location."
"Yes, of course," Cyrus said abstractedly.
"We know the identity of the man responsible for our present difficulty, and I have some idea as to how he obtained the information that prompted his attack on us. But I suspect he is not working alone. In fact, I know he is not, he must have enlisted Mohammed, the man who assaulted Emerson today, for it is surely too much of a coincidence to assume that incident is unrelated to the others. Mohammed has been absent from the village for years, and if I read his character aright, he is not the sort of man to risk injury or imprisonment for the sake of an old grievance."
Cyrus stroked his chin reflectively. "Emerson's got a lot of enemies."
"True." I removed a sheet of paper from the portfolio I had brought with me. "I composed a brief list
this afternoon."
Cyrus's jaw dropped. "One, two, three . . . Twelve people who are thirsting for Emerson's blood?
He's been a busy little bee, hasn't he?"
"The list may not be complete," I admitted. "Emerson was a busy little bee even before I met him, new candidates keep turning up. These are the individuals of whom I have personal knowledge. Oh, wait—
I forgot Mr. Vincey. That makes thirteen."
"I hope you're not superstitious," Cyrus muttered.
"I?" I laughed lightly. "The number is meaningless in any case. There is a strong probability that several
of these people are dead or incarcerated. Alberto"— I inscribed a neat interrogation point after the name— "Alberto certainly was in prison. I used to drop in for a visit when I passed through Cairo, but
I have neglected to do so for the last few years. Habib— you remember Habib— "
"Oh, yes. He tried to brain my old buddy once before"
"He did not appear to be in good health, and that was some years ago. He may have passed on But it is imperative that we attempt to discover the present whereabouts of these individuals. If any have been recently released from prison, or have suddenly disappeared from their usual haunts . . ."
"It won't do any harm to ask," said Cyrus. He was obviously unconvinced by my reasoning, which was,
I admit, based on somewhat slender evidence. I have found that my instincts for criminal behavior are a more reliable guide than logic, but I sensed that argument would not carry any more weight with Cyrus than it ever had with Emerson, though Cyrus would have expressed his reservations more diplomatically.
His brow furrowed, Cyrus ran his finger down the list. It did not pause at the particular name I had
feared might rouse painful memories, and I was of course too tactful to point it out. "Reginald Forthright," Cyrus read. "Is he old Willie's nephew, the one the newspaper stories mentioned? Sacrificed his brave young life in the search for his uncle? I thought he was dead."
"Disappeared in the desert," I corrected. "However, I consider it unlikely that he is involved. For one thing, he knows . . . But I will say no more. Besides, Tarek would have ... I believe I have said all I
ought to say."
"Your acquaintances sure have unusual names," Cyrus murmured. "Charity Jones, Ahmed the Louse