Tomb of the Golden Bird (23 page)

memories, but this one was a favorite of Nefret's. "D'you remember—" she began. "Yes, and I'd rather not be reminded of it." She went on remorselessly, "—that horrid girl who lured you into the gardens late at night? You never did admit whether she kissed you before she fainted dead away and you had to carry her out in your arms." "I was only sixteen," Ramses protested. "Did she?" "Yes." He grinned. "It was quite a kiss, too. Or would have been, if we hadn't been interrupted by a would-be assassin." "They do keep turning up," Nefret said, laughing. "You enjoyed that, didn't you? You enjoyed all of it." "Well, not all of it. The memories are better than the actuality. But. . . there's something about Cairo." They sat in silence for a while, taking it all in—Cairo. "He should be there by now," Ramses said, rising. "Finish your coffee. I'll telephone." He came back to report that Russell hadn't yet arrived, but was expected shortly. "He'll see me." "I should bloody well hope so," said Nefret. "Let's walk, shall we? It isn't far—round the gardens and straight down the Sharia Mohammed Ali." "Are you sure?" She slipped her arm through his. "If we see Bashir, I'll slap his face." "He's far, far away by now," Ramses said. "He was never the stuff of which heroes are made." They had almost reached the Bab el Khalk and the administration building when a passing man jostled Nefret. Ramses turned on him with a sharp reprimand, and saw, between the turban and the overlarge beard, a pair of frightened eyes. Bashir caught at his arm. "Run away," he gasped. "They are watching to see if you come here. Run—" Ramses heard the crack of a rifle. He threw himself on Nefret, pushing her down behind a cart filled with sugarcane. Another shot sprayed green fragments across the street. Pedestrians scattered, screaming. In the middle of the pavement Bashir lay sprawled in a spreading pool of blood. Children always know when something is amiss, no matter how normally the adults around them try to behave. Charla made a scene when she learned her parents had gone off without a word of farewell. My lecture had no effect; it was, I admit, somewhat half-hearted, since my mind was on other things. It required the combined efforts of David, Emerson, and Sennia to console her. A certain amount of bribery was also necessary—a handful of sweets, a visit to the stable, and an uproarious game of tag, with all of them participating. David John felt their absence as keenly as did his sister, and I sometimes wished he would express his misgivings as openly as she. Temper tantrums were violent but soon over, whereas David John had a tendency to brood. After we had settled Charla I went looking for him. He was not in his playroom with Elia or in the kitchen with Fatima. He was not with Amira. Eventually I located him in the drawing room, curled up in a chair with a book in his hand. "One of your Christmas gifts?" I asked. "No," said David John. "It is not one of my Christmas gifts. I have read them all." Not until he held it up did I see the cover of the volume. The scene depicted a flimsily clad female clasped tightly in the arms of a male person wearing Bedouin robes. "Good Gad," I cried. "I have told you over and over, David John, you are not to take books from the shelves here." "It was not on the shelf, Grandmama. I found it lying on the table, and since I had nothing else to read . . ." The book was the popular romance I had lent Margaret. It had been lying on the table; I had never got round to putting it away. I repressed an impulse to snatch it away from the child. He had not disobeyed me—not literally. "Do you find it interesting?" I asked, observing with regret that he had read a good half of the cursed thing. "Quite," said David John. "There are a few parts I don't understand, though. Perhaps, Grandmama, you could explain what the lady means when she says—" "No," I said quickly. "I fear I cannot allow you to finish the book, David John. I ought not have left it lying about." "But the lady is in deep distress," David John protested. "I want to know how the book ends." "It has a happy ending." I removed the book from his hands. "Someone comes to rescue her from the cruel sheikh?" "Er—yes." In this case, prevarication was absolutely necessary. Trying to explain that the sheikh was not really evil just because he had— And that the distressed lady didn't really mind that he had . . . Out of the question. "Why don't you write an ending to the story?" I suggested. "Hmmm." David John considered this, his blue eyes pensive. "I have not attempted fiction as yet. It would be a challenge." "A challenge indeed. I am sure you will be up to it. While you are doing that I will try to find you something else to read." I got him settled, with freshly sharpened pencils and a pile of paper, and then went to my study to put the book safely away. Before I did so, I leafed through the beginning pages, hoping the contents were not as bad as I remembered. They might have been worse. There was a good deal of panting and burning eyes and passionate glances, but, thank heaven, no anatomical references. David John could not have made much of it. I had to admit the confounded thing had a certain fascination for the vulgar, of whom there are a great number. It was not surprising that it had been the most popular book of the year. A book that might be found on any bookshelf. No, I thought. Ridiculous. It would do no harm to try. I had made my own copy of the mystery message. Taking it from the desk drawer, I got to work. "There you are," said Emerson. "I have been looking—" I started and let out a little shriek. "Don't creep up on me like that!" "I was not creeping," said Emerson indignantly. "I was looking—" "Look at this, then." I thrust the paper on which I had been writing at him. Emerson's noble brow furrowed as he read. He looked as disheveled as I had ever seen him, his hair on end, his shirt hanging out of his trousers. An hour with Charla could have that effect. "What is this nonsense?" he demanded. "It is not nonsense. It is the mystery message. I have solved the cipher!" " 'On the first day of the first month the Bull will die. The Judge will die. The Eagle will . . .' Die?" "I hadn't quite finished." Referring again to the original numbers, I began turning the pages of Desert Passion. "Yes," I said. "Die." Emerson was not easily convinced. He had to check the first few words for himself before he admitted I was on the right, the only possible, track. "Do you understand what this means?" I demanded, as Emerson contemplated the lurid cover of Desert Passion with raised eyebrows. "We were wrong, we were all wrong, about the nature of the conspiracy. It is assassination they plan. The cold-blooded murder of three people!" "The Bull," Emerson muttered. "Oh, good Gad. Lord Allenby! He is known as the Bull to enemies and supporters alike. There are dozens of judges . . ." "The Judge must be King Fuad. His name is derived from that Arabic word." "Yes, yes." Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. "I ought to have seen that. I am having a hard time taking this in, Peabody. Wait, though. The eagle is one of the Hashemite symbols. Feisal of Iraq?" "I would assume so." "Apparently," said Emerson, "these absurd pseudonyms were agreed upon in advance, leaving only the time of the attack to be determined in the final message. Let us have a chat with my brother." We found Sethos on the veranda, being waited upon by Fatima and fawned upon by the Great Cat of Re. The cat had taken an unaccountable fancy to him. I should have known that was a bad sign. "That child," Sethos declared, rubbing his back, "is the most formidable opponent I have ever encountered. Her idea of tagging someone is to run headlong into him. Margaret nobly offered to take charge of her after she—" "The message is not a fake, nor gibberish," I said, for in my opinion time was of the essence. "I have deciphered it." I handed him the paper. As he read it, his eyes narrowed to slits. "I don't believe it," he said flatly. "Are you accusing Peabody of inventing this?" Emerson demanded. "No. She wouldn't. . ." He broke off, biting his lip. "Oh, yes, she would, if she had a good reason for doing so." "Thank you, my dear," I said, much gratified. "But she didn't," Emerson went on. "I have verified her deductions— not," he added hastily, "that it was necessary. There can be no question about it. You lied—again." Margaret appeared at the door of the veranda. She looked windblown and disheveled, but there was color in her cheeks, and she was smiling. The smile didn't last. "Lied?" she repeated, looking from Emerson to Sethos. "What did he lie about this time?" "It was not a lie," Sethos said vehemently. "The story I told you was true. There must be some mistake." "No mistake," said Emerson, arms folded and brow dark. "You knew all along the message was not gibberish. You knew that three lives were at hazard." "Imminently," I added. "Today is the twenty-ninth of December. The first day of the first month must refer to the first day of the new year. We have less than three days in which to warn the victims. It will take until tomorrow to reach Cairo by train, even longer by other means of transport. We cannot risk sending a telegram. What could we say that would be forceful enough to command immediate attentionbut would not warn the assassins, should it be intercepted by one of them?" "What's this all about?" Margaret demanded. Sethos had tried several times to speak. It was odd to see him automatically continue to stroke the purring cat, while his normally impassive countenance expressed a series of conflicting emotions. Now he burst out, "Nefret. Nefret and Ramses. I warned them to watch out for Bashir and his lot, but if this is true, the consequences could be deadly, for it is not only he whom they have to fear. They must be told." "An aeroplane," I cried. "You commandeered one before." "No chance," Sethos muttered. "I might be able to pull it off, but I would have to go in person." "You aren't going anywhere," said Emerson. "Peabody, send for Daoud." Sethos did not take kindly to being locked up. He continued to protest as Daoud led him off to his room, with instructions not to leave him alone for a moment. He was in a state of considerable agitation. "Or putting it on," said Emerson. "The man is a consummate actor." "He is very fond of Nefret," I said. Glancing at Margaret, who had been a silent witness to the proceedings, I added, "In a platonic way, of course. Like a loving uncle." "I haven't asked what this is all about," Margaret began. "Yes, you have. Twice. I cannot explain, even if I were sure I could trust you to refrain from journalistic speculation. I hope we will not be forced to lock you up too." "I haven't enough to go on," Margaret admitted. "Just tell me one thing. He kept insisting that he had passed on to you what 'they' had told him. I have a good idea as to who 'they' are. Could he have been telling the truth?" It mattered to her. She hadn't taken out her notebook and her hands kept twisting together. "That is what we intend to ascertain," I said. From Manuscript H "He risked his life to warn us," Ramses said. "And I called him a coward." Seated behind his desk, Russell gestured to an aide. "Coffee," he ordered. "Unless you'd rather have something stronger?" Ramses shook his head. Nefret dabbed at a bleeding scratch on one cheek. "Something alcoholic," she said calmly. "To disinfect this. Cairo streets are filthy." The police had arrived with commendable promptness. Russell's men were trained to respond quickly to sounds of gunfire, especially so close to their headquarters. They had not found the shooter, though. He had abandoned the rifle in the alleyway from which he had fired and melted into the crowd. Russell was not the sort of man to waste time in sentiment. "Let's go over this again. You are telling me that there are two different conspiracies, one in Egypt and one in Iraq? That both aim at the bloodless overthrow of the governments? Then who murdered Bashir? One of his lieutenants who disagreed with his pacifist notions?" Ramses couldn't blame him for sounding a note of cynicism. "Someone disagreed with him," he said. "Vehemently. Their intention was to prevent us from exposing the plot to you." "Why the devil should they bother?" Russell demanded. "It's not much of a plot, is it? And it hasn't the chance of a snowball in hell. . ." He ran his hand over his chin. "Excuse me, Mrs. Emerson." "You have expressed my sentiments exactly," Nefret said. "Bashir's murder casts the whole story in doubt." "You say you heard it from Todros." Russell's voice was studiously noncommittal. He had never quite got over his suspicions of David. Ramses said, "As I told you, Mr. Todros pretended to be in sympathy with Bashir in order to win his confidence. I do not doubt his sincerity or his accuracy. The plot against Feisal came from another source entirely. I confess I can't explain thisdevelopment. However, there is someone who may be able to shed lighton the situation." "Oh, Lord." Russell's mustache drooped. "Not that bas— Not him. Those people in intelligence think they are above the law. He won't talkto me." "He'll talk to me." Ramses rose. "Let's go, Nefret." "I'll supply you with an escort," Russell said. "And I strongly suggestthat you get out of Cairo as soon as you can." Emerson was almost as difficult to deal with as was Sethos. Had he possessed an aeroplane or a winged horse, he would have set off at once. There was nothing we could do but wait for the evening express. Earlier trains were locals, which arrived in Cairo no sooner. I did not point out the obvious, since he knew it as well as I. Ramses and Nefret had arrived in Cairo that morning. If an attack was to be made upon them, it might already have occurred. They had promised to telegraph after they spoke with Thomas Russell. I sent Hassan to the telegraph office to make sure a message would be sent on the moment it arrived. The long day wore on with no news, and Emerson's control finally cracked. "I don't think I can face tea with the children," he muttered. "You must. They must not suspect anything is amiss. We cannot leave for several more hours. Go and tidy up." "Damned if I will." I had not the heart to insist. He had planted himself at the door of the veranda whence he could watch the road that led to the river. I went to see Sethos. I had to wake Daoud, who was asleep across the threshold; as he explained, his prisoner was not inclined to conversation, so he had been bored. Sethos was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring down at his folded hands. He looked up with a haggard face. Any news? "I will inform you at once if we hear. If we do not. . . Emerson and I are leaving for Cairo shortly." "Let me go with you." "Emerson would never permit that, and I must say I share his doubts." "I can resolve them
if I am allowed to have a few words with Smith. Please, Amelia!" "I will have a few words to say to—" Sethos leaped up. "Is that Emerson's voice?" There was no mistaking it. I ran with winged feet to the veranda. Emerson had ripped open a telegram and was waving it like a banner. "It's all right, Peabody. They are all right. They are coming home!" "God be praised," Daoud exclaimed. Sethos snatched the telegram from Emerson before I could do so. He was considerate enough to read it aloud. " 'All is well. Stay in Luxor. Taking train tonight.'" "Ramses's telegraphic style is beginning to resemble Emerson's," I said, too relieved to scold Sethos. "Only nine words." "Ten," said Sethos. "He added 'Love.'" Needless to say, we were all on hand to meet the train next morning— all of us except Sethos. "Ramses may or may not have obtained information that may or may not clear Sethos of deliberately misleading us" was Emerson's comment. "He will be confined until we know, one way or the other." As we had hoped, Ramses and Nefret were on the train. After the first cries of welcome and fond embraces were over, Ramses hoisted Charla onto his shoulder and I said to Nefret, "How did you get that cut on your cheek? Have you any other injuries? Has Ramses?" "No, Mother." She put her arm round me. "I'll explain later. If ever there was a time for one of your councils of war, this is it. We have a great deal to tell you." "And we," I began, "have . . . Good Gad. Who is that?" In fact I knew perfectly well who it was. Pointed nose, narrowed eyes, thin mouth . . . None other than Bracegirdle-Boisdragon, alias Mr. Smith.