The Falcon at the Portal: An Amelia Peabody Mystery (52 page)

"It fits," Ramses admitted. "She couldn't have understood his real motives or the seriousness of selling forgeries; she probably thought of it as a jolly little joke to be played on a group of solemn scholars. We're still missing something, though. Why did he have to retrieve the scarab?"

David had been turning the figure over and over in his hands. "Because she signed her work," he said. "Part of the joke. Look here. Are you sure this wasn't on the scarab?"

They were incised on the flat base of the statue—two small hieroglyphic signs. One was an owl, the ancient Egyptian M; the other, below it, was the alphabetic sign for the letter R. Together they were not only Maude's initials; they made up an Egyptian word.

Ramses had deliberately cultivated his visual memory, but he didn't even have to close his eyes and concentrate in order to remember that part of the inscription.

"Of course it was," he said. "It's a title—the word that means overseer or superintendent. That was one of the anomalies I noticed—the fact that the inscription
began
with the titles of the official who composed it. He practically rubbed my nose in it, the bastard, and I flat-out missed it!"

"There you go again, taking yourself to task because you aren't omniscient. How could you possibly have realized what it meant?" David slipped the galabeeyah over his head. "I think," he went on, after his head had emerged, "he panicked unnecessarily when he realized you might have the scarab. Breaking into the house was a risk."

"There was no risk to him. The men he hired knew nothing about him, and he left no trail that could lead back to him."

"We had better show this to the Professor," David said. "Are you ready?"

"Mother wouldn't think so." Attired only in trousers and boots, Ramses shut the bureau drawer and went back to the wardrobe. "There's got to be a confounded shirt around here someplace ... Ah. They're on the top shelf."

His indignant tone made David laugh. "That's where they are supposed to be."

"Are they? Why do women button the damned things before they put them away? They only have to be unbuttoned again. David, I don't want to mention this to Father—or Mother—tonight."

"This is the most damning evidence we've found yet, Ramses. We cannot keep it from them."

"The last nail in Jack Reynolds's coffin," Ramses muttered. "No, David. It's too easy."

David pushed a pile of papers off a chair and sat down. "Out with it, then. If it's not Jack, it must be Geoffrey you suspect. Look here, Ramses—"

"It's not what you think." He tucked his shirt in.

"I wasn't suggesting—"

"Yes, you were. You're wrong. Do you suppose I
want
him to be guilty? Think what that would do to Nefret! But it would be even worse to cover up his guilt on her account; if he's the man we're after he is totally unprincipled and as dangerous as a snake. He took one of the horses out this afternoon and didn't get back until just before it started raining—you heard what Mohammed said. He could have followed Mother that day solely in order to establish an alibi; why the devil else
would
he have followed her? It wouldn't be difficult to arrange a few firecrackers to go off after he had come gallantly to her rescue. He's had access to Jack's weapons, to Jack's poor naive mind, and to Jack's sister—"

A sharp catch of breath from David interrupted him. He shrugged. "Feel free to tell me if I've overlooked something. God knows I'd like to think so."

"It's all circumstantial," David muttered.

"I know. Give me another day before we break this latest bit of news. I'll stay here at the house tonight and keep an eye on him. He may do something—or refrain from doing something— that will settle the business."

What they learned from his parents at dinner that evening could be regarded as another nail in Reynolds's coffin. To Ramses it was a point in his favor. The top men in the drug business seldom used the stuff themselves. They had better sense.

So he spent the early hours of the night in the garden watching a particular window. It had been dark for quite a long time before a form emerged and crept through the shadows in the direction Ramses had expected. There was no objection from Narmer; Ramses had ordered the dog to be shut up at night when he began working for Russell.

Slowly Ramses approached the window of the room that had once been his. He didn't suppose she would be there, but he made certain there was no sound of movement or breathing within before he climbed over the sill. It did not take long to find what he was looking for. He removed the bullets before he put the weapon back under the mattress.

Up to that point he had managed to think of nothing except the job at hand, but as he straightened, a series of remembered images flashed across his mind, so vividly and painfully that he closed his eyes, as if that could shut them out. How in God's name was he going to tell her?

As a rule I rise before Emerson, who is a heavy sleeper and not at his best in the morning. Conceive of my surprise, therefore, to open my eyes and behold a small circle of glowing red and a statuesque form silhouetted against the starlit window. It was Emerson—not only awake, but dressed and smoking his pipe.

I sat up with a start and a cry. "What has happened?"

"Nothing as yet," was the calm reply. "A number of things are about to happen, however. I must see Reynolds and von Bork, and pay a courtesy call on Reisner, before we begin work. Do you want to come with me?"

"Certainly."

"I felt sure you would say that. Do you need any help with your buttons?"

"No, thank you. I can probably dress more quickly without your assistance."

Emerson chuckled. "Fatima won't be up yet. I will go to the kitchen and make coffee for you, my dear."

If I had needed any encouragement to assume my attire with
out delay, that magnanimous offer would have done it. Emerson's intentions are of the best, but it would probably take Fatima an hour to clean up after him if he did not actually set the stove on fire.

Sure enough, I found him swearing and nursing a scalded hand. He had smashed a cup and overturned the coffeepot. There was a dead mouse in the middle of the table—one of Horus's offerings, I presumed.

I made the coffee and swept up the fragments of the broken cup while Emerson disposed of the mouse. "Looks like a fine day," he remarked, joining me at the table.

"For what?" I demanded somewhat waspishly. (I had cut my finger on a bit of broken cup.)

"Among other things," said Emerson, "for excavating. One part of the plot is clear to me now. I know what is behind the forger's activities, and what it is we are not meant to find at Zawaiet."

"I suppose you aren't going to tell me."

"I will give you a hint. Two of the objects the forger sold were unusual—the little ivory statue and the legs of the couch. Both are early dynastic in date. By a strange coincidence, that is also the date of our pyramid. By another strange coincidence, someone is trying to keep us from excavating there." He paused invitingly.

"Good Gad," I breathed. "That is—I meant to say—yes, of course. The legs of a funeral couch, richly ornamented with gold; the image of a king, the father or grandfather of a king ... A royal burial!"

"Or a cache," Emerson amended. "Let us suppose our friend found it last year and determined to keep the treasure for himself. How was he to dispose of it without arousing suspicion? By making the genuine artifacts appear to be part of a larger collection with a believable provenance."

"Brilliant, Emerson! And he cannot have cleared the entire burial or he wouldn't be trying to drive us away from the site. Some of the funerary goods must still be there!"

"It appears that that may be the case," said Emerson. "He would have believed there was no urgency about removing the objects last season; the site is part of Reisner's concession, and he had no intention of returning to it. No one could have anticipated he would offer it to me."

"And he—the forger—would not have found that out until
recently. Reisner would have no reason to mention it to anyone except M. Maspero, and your habit of keeping your plans a secret until the last moment—"

"It must have come as a considerable shock to the bastard," Emerson agreed. "My heart bleeds for him."

The appearance of Fatima, openmouthed with surprise at seeing us, put an end to the conversation. I put an end to her apologies and apologized to her for the mess.

There was just enough light in the courtyard to allow us to see the shapeless outlines of furniture and fountain. The sky above was a pale shade, almost without color as yet, but I knew it would be a fine day. I took my parasol, however. Rain is not the only thing against which it is a protection.

"Shall we leave a message for the others?" I asked, as the sleepy doorman unbarred the portal.

"We will be back before they miss us," said Emerson. "It won't take long."

He was not correct in that assumption. When we reached Jack Reynolds's house we found the bird had flown.

One of them, at any rate. After ascertaining that Jack was not in the house, and that none of the servants admitted knowledge of his present whereabouts, Emerson burst into the guest chamber where Karl von Bork lay and shook him awake. The brusque awakening and the sight of Emerson's engorged countenance only a few inches away would have reduced a man with less on his conscience than Karl to incoherence. I had quite a time calming him enough to get a statement out of him, and it was not much use. He had stumbled off to bed after we took our departure, leaving Jack in the study. He had not seen him since. He had heard nothing, seen nothing, knew nothing—except that he was the lowest of worms, the most contemptible creature on the face of the earth, undeserving of our friendship and Mary's love.

This was true, but not of much help, so I left him wringing his hands and crying. Emerson had returned to Jack's study. When I joined him there, he had opened the gun case.

"One of the rifles is missing," he announced. Icy calm had replaced his fury and he went about his business with the terrifying efficiency that makes Emerson so formidable. Returning to the guest chamber, he searched that room and the shrinking form of Karl von Bork without finding any sign of a weapon. We then hastened to the stable, where we found, as we had expected, that

Jack's horse was gone. The stableman was not to be seen; in fact, most of the servants, aroused by Emerson's initial shouts, had fled.

Emerson's penultimate act was to strip the gun case of all it contained. Pistols in his belt, the other weapons under his arm, he delayed only long enough to speak a final word to Karl.

"Go to work and say nothing to Junker or anyone else," he instructed. "If you are innocent we may be able to get you out of this yet. Guilty or innocent, running away would be the worst mistake you could make."

We hastened back to the house. The doorman's greeting brought everyone rushing out of the breakfast room, including Lia and David, who had just arrived. Emerson apprised them of the situation in a few brief sentences.

"So finish your breakfasts," he concluded. "I could do with another cup of coffee myself. Peabody, you have not eaten; make haste, my dear, we must be off."

"Off?" Geoffrey exclaimed. "To the dig? But, sir, shouldn't we look for Jack? If he is out there somewhere with a rifle, he could be dangerous!"

"Where would we look?" Ramses asked, for Emerson's look of mild exasperation indicated he did not mean to waste time pointing out the obvious.

"At least you will go armed," Geoffrey persisted.

"Armed?" Emerson appeared to notice for the first time that he was carrying Jack's weapons. He dropped them with a clatter. "None of them is loaded."

"I know where he keeps the ammunition," Geoffrey said eagerly. "Let me go and—"

"In his desk," Emerson interrupted. "The damned fool didn't even lock the drawers. I do not carry firearms, Geoffrey. Mrs. Emerson does; I do not object, since to the best of my knowledge she has never hit anything yet. Kindly refrain from arguing with me and do as I say."

No one else had argued with him. They knew better. However, conversation cannot be restrained for long among us, and after we had taken our places at the table the inevitable speculation began.