The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (25 page)

"No doubt. Cyrus is so hospitable, he likes to keep open house for any archaeologists visiting Luxor. Will the Petries be coming? We heard he had been in hospital. I hope it was nothing serious."

"A surgical operation was necessary, but he is recuperating nicely. However, Mrs. Petrie felt he was not fit for a large party and of course she could not consider enjoying herself when he was ill. What is the news from Luxor?"

We were having quite a comfortable little gossip about mutual friends when Ramses, belatedly remembering his manners, or possibly directed by his father, turned back to accompany us. I informed him we did not require an escort, but he would not go away, and so we were forced to change the subject. A wink from Katherine assured me she would finish the story about Mr. Davis and the duchess at a later time.

When we caught the others up, Emerson was arguing with Cyrus about the age of the pyramid.

"Reisner mentioned it last year when he was in Luxor on his way south," Cyrus insisted. "Said it was Second Dynasty."

"Bah," said Emerson. "Far too early. You're familiar with the plan of the Step Pyramid? Beginning of the Third Dynasty, correct? This is clearly later. Admittedly it's falling apart, but the shoddy construction was due to the fact that this king, whoever he was, did not reign as long as Zoser. Come along inside and I'll show you—"

"No, Emerson!" I said firmly. "Cyrus is not dressed for such an expedition."

Impeccably attired in one of the white linen suits he had specially tailored for him, Cyrus stroked his goatee and smiled.

"Thank you, Amelia. I believe I will postpone that little treat. You know I'm not as crazy about the insides of pyramids as some people. How about the private tombs? Sometimes you find interesting objects in the private tombs."

"Will you never get over this dilettante's obsession with interesting objects?" Emerson inquired good-humoredly (good-humoredly for Emerson, that is). "The only objects I care about are those that would enable me to identify the builder of this pyramid. If it's private tombs you want, come have a look at the West Cemetery. So far the graves are small and poor, but I am determined to make a complete clearance of the area, unlike some other excavators, who..."

They went off arm in arm, with Emerson continuing to lecture and Nefret trotting alongside. After inquiring whether we wanted him to stay with us—to which we replied with a decided negative—Ramses followed the others.

Watching the tall erect figure of my son I let out a little sigh.

"Something is worrying you," Katherine said, with the intuitive sympathy of a friend. "Something to do with Ramses?"

"I am not worried. Not at all. But I do wish he would settle down. He can't seem to make up his mind what he wants to do."

"My dear Amelia! For a young man his age he has already accomplished a great deal. The beginning Egyptian grammar, those volumes on the Theban temples—"

"That's just the trouble, Katherine. He has been working too hard and not taking proper care of himself."

"Aren't you contradicting yourself?" Katherine asked with a smile. "You just want him to stay home so you can fuss over him."

"I have never been one of those doting mamas, Katherine, you know that. The truth is Emerson has missed him a great deal."

"Emerson?"

"And Nefret, of course."

"Of course."

"Well, never mind. Allah will decree, as dear Abdullah would have said. Would you care to go inside the pyramid?"

"Not today or any other day." Her amused and affectionate smile faded into sobriety. "Nor will Cyrus, if I can prevent him. Since you left he has been increasingly bored and restless. Luxor is just not the same without you. I believe Cyrus would even abandon his beloved castle and ask for permission to excavate in the Cairo area in order to be near you. It would please me, too, but I don't want Cyrus climbing around inside pyramids. Can't you find him a nice safe group of tombs?"

I took the hand she offered and gave it a little squeeze, for I was greatly moved at this declaration of affection, but I could not help smiling a little at her naivete. She had learned a great deal about Egyptology since she married Cyrus, but her chief interest in the subject was how it would affect her husband.

"My dear Katherine, nothing would delight me more than having you and Cyrus as neighbors again. Would that it were in my power to do as you ask, but we have absolutely no influence with M. Maspero these days; as you see, my dear Emerson has been forced to settle for insignificant cemeteries and unfinished pyramids. However, Cyrus is on better terms with M. Maspero than we. Perhaps with a little judicious flattery.. . What sort of tombs did you have in mind?"

"It is a matter of complete indifference to me, Amelia dear, so long as the tombs in question don't have deep shafts and collapsing tunnels." She leaned closer and lowered her voice. "Cyrus would rather die than admit it, but he is not as young as he once was."

"None of us is," I said. "Not even Ramses and Nefret."

"It is a silly cliche, isn't it? But you know what I mean. Your enthusiasm for deep, pitch-dark passageways filled with bat guano and moldering mummies is one I cannot share."

"Ah, well, tastes differ," I said cheerfully. "And a good thing, too, Katherine, or we would all be fighting like Kilkenny cats over the same things."

Dinner that evening was a merry meal. Cyrus had brought several bottles of champagne and insisted on toasting everyone and everything. His final toast was in the nature of an announcement.

"Here's to you, folks, our best friends and near family. We've missed you so durned much, we've decided to give up the house in Luxor and move to Cairo—isn't that right, Katherine? I'm gonna see M. Maspero after Christmas and ask him about a firman for next season."

Our expressions of pleasure and surprise made Cyrus beam. He then began to question Emerson about possible sites.

My contributions to the conversation were spasmodic, for I was preoccupied with our forthcoming council of war. We had determined to hold it that evening; Howard was due to arrive next day, and the following day was Christmas. In my opinion it is a good idea to get unpleasant business over with as quickly as possible. Parts of it at least would certainly be unpleasant. We had asked Daoud and Selim to join us after dinner, and I was trying to think how best to manage the business as I led the way into the lantern-lit courtyard.

The main thing was to keep the discussion under firm control and not let it wander off into unproductive displays of emotion. I felt reasonably certain Emerson could not manage this. He believes he is rational and unsentimental, but he is mistaken.

There was one individual whom I could count on to refrain from emotional displays, so I drew him aside while the others were settling into their chairs. "Ramses, I believe the best way of going about this is to tell our friends how we found out about the fakes and what we have done to pursue the matter. Narrate it as you would a story, or perhaps a statement to the police—"

"You want
me
to do it?" Ramses asked, his emphatic black eyebrows drawing together.

I took this as an expression of surprise rather than refusal. "Yes, why not? You have more or less conquered your youthful tendency toward verbosity. Be succinct and factual. Include all the pertinent details but none that are superfluous. Avoid expressions of opinion. Assure our friends that never for a moment did we doubt David's integrity, but do not dwell at excessive length on the warmth of our feelings and the strength of our commitment to—" I broke off in mid-sentence and looked closely at him. It was rather dark in that corner of the courtyard. I stood on tiptoe in order to see his face more distinctly. "Are you by any chance grinding your teeth, Ramses?"

"No, Mother."

"Your lips are compressed to a degree that often expresses exasperation."

"I am not exasperated, Mother. Rather the reverse, in fact. But," he said, glancing over my head, "here are Daoud and Selim. Tell me when you want me to begin."

"I will give you your cue," I promised.

Daoud, the Beau Brummel of the family, had dressed for the occasion in silken robes and an astonishing turban. Selim looked very handsome in less extravagant but elegant garments. Fatima served coffee and Emerson offered brandy. I was among those who accepted the latter beverage and Cyrus gave me a questioning look.

"All right, folks," he said in his amiable American drawl. "Something's up, I reckon. Here we are sitting around in a circle for all the world like a board meeting, and Amelia's drinking brandy instead of whiskey and soda, and Emerson's chewed halfway through his pipe stem, and Miss Nefret's as fidgety as a bird when a cat's near its nest. Do Selim and Daoud know what this is all about, or are they in the dark too?"

"They won't be for long," I said. "Nor will you. You are right, Cyrus. We have something to tell you—all of you. I beg that you—including Selim and Daoud—will contain your expressions of surprise, distress or indignation until you have heard the entire story, for it would be an unnecessary waste of time to comment—"

Ramses cleared his throat. "Yes," I said. "Proceed, Ramses."

He told it quite well, beginning with the visit of Mr. Renfrew with the scarab, and his accusation of David. The only reaction from Selim was a sharp intake of breath. Daoud's honest brow furrowed, and Nefret went to perch on a hassock beside his chair, her hand on his.

No one spoke until Ramses had concluded the narrative with a statement of the negative results of our visits to the Cairo dealers. "We will find the man, though," he said, meeting Selim's dark gaze.

"Quite right," I said briskly.

Cyrus brought his big hand down on his knee. "Well now, that's a thunderbolt, and no mistake! I was wondering how to bring up the subject."

"Damnation," said Emerson mildly. "You bought one of the fakes, Vandergelt? Why didn't you mention it?"

"I didn't know it was a forgery," Cyrus protested. "Consarn it, Emerson, I still don't think it is. What had me in a stew was the provenance—the alleged provenance, I guess I should say. It seemed real strange that David would be selling Abdullah's collection to dealers instead of offering it direct to friends like—well, like me. He'd have got a better price, and done me a favor."

"That did not arouse your suspicions?" Emerson demanded. "Really, Vandergelt, an old hand like you ought to have known better."

"Well, maybe so." Cyrus took out one of his favorite cheroots. He made rather a long business about lighting it, and after waiting in vain for him to elaborate, Emerson bared his teeth in a humorless smile.

"You see what we are up against," he remarked to the room at large. "Vandergelt knows us well; he knew and respected Abdullah. Yet even he was willing to believe in this apocryphal collection."

"I wouldn't think the less of Abdullah if he had done such a thing," Cyrus said defensively. "Doggone it, Emerson, I admire your principles but they are sure unrealistic. And I could understand why David might decide to dispose of the objects without telling you. You'd have raised Cain."

Selim spoke for the first time, in a voice as flat and sharp as a knife blade. "My honored father had no collection of antiquities."

"You're sure?" Cyrus asked. The young man's eyes flashed, and Cyrus held up a conciliatory hand. "I don't doubt your word, Selim, I'm just trying to get things straight."

"Abdullah was a man of honor and my friend," said Emerson.

"I would not have blamed him for doing what most men, Egyptian and English, have done. I do not believe he would have done it behind my back."

"He would not," Selim said. "But this story makes no sense, Father of Curses. You say the objects are fakes. If that is so, and you are never wrong about such things, then it is not my father but David whose honor is in question. Collecting antiquities is not a crime. Selling forgeries is. Would David go to prison if he were proved guilty?"

Daoud let out a bellow of alarm. The complexities which had been clear to Selim's quick intelligence had confused our simple friend, but he understood the last sentence.

Nefret squeezed his hand. "He is not guilty, Daoud, and we will prove it. This is where we need your help. The forgeries are perfect, even better than the ones made by David's former master, Abd el Hamed. Have you heard of anyone like that?"

Daoud shook his head. Simple is not the same as stupid; there was nothing wrong with Daoud's brain, it just moved a little slower than some. "I cannot think of such a man. Can you, Selim?"

"Not in Gurneh." Selim sounded positive, as well he might. Like his father, he had a wide acquaintance with the antiquities dealers of his hometown. "But Egypt is long. Aswan, Beni Hassan—any village could produce such a genius. Better than Abd el Hamed, you say? That is hard to believe."

"You can have a look for yourself," Ramses said. "As I said, we were able to buy several of them. I'll get them, shall I, Father?"

Emerson nodded. "I don't suppose you brought your purchase, Vandergelt? What was it?"

"I did bring it. Had to; bought it in Berlin, didn't trust the international mails to get it home safe."

He and Ramses went off. The atmosphere had changed; it was rather like the feeling of relief that follows a violent family argument (a condition with which I am only too familiar). How well they had all taken the news! A refreshing sense of renewed optimism filled me. With these resolute allies and dear friends to assist us, the case was as good as solved!