The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog (11 page)

CHAPTER 5

"Men are frail creatures, it is true, one does not expect them
to demonstrate the steadfastness of women."

Not so cursed elderly he had forgotten where he lives," Emerson remarked. "The directions are clear.
Left at the sabil."
He tossed the crumpled paper onto the breakfast table. It fell into the cream jug, by the time I had fished it out, the writing was so blurred as to be indecipherable.
"I will take your word for it," I said, putting the soggy wad onto a clean saucer. "Nor will I claim that
even a young man might suffer a momentary lapse of memory or an inadvertent slip of the pen. The fact that the wrong turning led us into an ambush is proof positive that the misdirection was intentional. Have you ever done anything to offend Mr McKenzie?"
"I presume," said my husband, distorting his handsome face into a hideous scowl, "that you are attempting to be facetious, Amelia. The invitation did not come from McKenzie."
He had not answered the question. It was a safe assumption that at some time or other he had offended Mr. McKenzie, because there were few people he had not offended. The reaction seemed somewhat extreme, however.
"How do you know it did not come from him?"
"I don't," Emerson admitted. "I sent round this morning to inquire, but the messenger has not yet returned."
"He will deny it in any case."
"True" Emerson brooded like a pensive sphinx over the muffin he was buttering. "There are some curious stories about McKenzie. His age and the passage of time have given him an air of respectability he did
not always deserve. In his youth he swaggered around in Turkish costume— silken robes and a huge turban— and by all accounts behaved like a Turk in— er— other ways."
I knew he was referring to women. Emerson is absurdly shy about such matters— with me, at any rate.
I had some reason to suspect he was not so reticent with other men, or with some women "Did he keep
a harim?" I inquired curiously
"Oh, well." Emerson looked uncomfortable. "It was not uncommon at that time for wild young men encountering a strange culture to adopt some of its customs. Early archaeologists were no more scrupulous about the monuments than they were about— er— other things. McKenzie's private
collection of antiquities is said to be— "
"He never married, I believe," I mused. "Perhaps it was not women he favored.  There is one Turkish custom— "
"Good Gad, Peabody!" Emerson shouted, crimsoning. "A well-bred woman has no business knowing about such things, much less talking of them. I was speaking of McKenzie's collection."
But I was not to hear of Mr. McKenzie's collection at that time The safragi entered to announce a visitor.
Mr. Vincey and his cat came in together, the great brindled feline leashed and walking beside his master like ... I was about to say a well-trained dog, but there was nothing of canine subservience in the cat's manner, it was rather as if he had trained Mr. Vincey to take him for a walk instead of the reverse.
I offered Mr. Vincey coffee, which he accepted, but when I poured a little cream into a saucer for
Anubis he sniffed it and then gave me a contemptuous look before sitting down at Vincey's feet and curling his tail around his haunches. Mr. Vincey apologized at quite excessive length for his pet's rudeness.
"Cats are never rude," I said. "They act according to their natures, with a candor humans might well emulate. Many grown cats don't care for milk."
"This one certainly has the air of a carnivore," added Emerson. He is more courteous to cats than to people, he went on, "Well, Vincey, what can we do for you? We were about to go out."
Mr. Vincey explained that he had called to inquire whether I had fully recovered from my unfortunate adventure. I was about to reply when a fit of coughing and a pointed stare from Emerson reminded me that Vincey must be referring to the affair of the masked ball, for our most recent experience could not be known to him. I assured him I was in perfect health and spirits. Emerson began to fidget, and after a few more courteous exchanges Mr. Vincey took the hint. It was not until he rose and picked up the leash that I realized the cat was not attached to the other end of it. The collar dangled empty.
With an exclamation of amused chagrin Mr. Vincey surveyed the room. "Now where has he got to? He seems determined to embarrass me with you, Mrs. Emerson, I assure you he has never done this before. If you will forgive me . . ." Puckering his lips, he let out a shrill, sweet whistle.
The cat promptly emerged from under the breakfast table. Avoiding Vincey's outstretched hand, it jumped onto my lap, where it settled down and began to purr. It was clear that efforts to remove it without damage to my skirt would be in vain, for Mr. Vincey's first attempt resulted in a low growl
and a delicate but definite insertion of sharp claws. I scratched it behind its ear,- releasing its grip, it
rolled its head back and let out a reverberant purr.
"The creature demonstrates excellent taste," said Emerson dryly.
"I have never seen him behave this way," Mr. Vincey murmured, staring. "Almost I am emboldened
to ask a favor of you."
"We are not adopting any more animals," Emerson declared firmly. He tickled the cat under its chin. It licked his fingers. "Not under any circumstances whatever," Emerson went on. The cat butted its head against his hand.
"Oh, I would never give up my faithful friend," Vincey exclaimed. "But I am about to leave Egypt—a short journey to Damascus, where a friend of mine has requested my assistance in a personal matter.
I have been wondering where to find a temporary home for Anubis. I have not so many friends to
impose upon."
There was no self-pity in the last statement, only a manly fortitude.
It moved me. Vanity also had some part in my response. The approval of a cat cannot but flatter the recipient.
"We could take charge of Anubis for a few weeks, couldn't we, Emerson? I find I miss the cat Bastet more than I had expected."
"Impossible," Emerson declared. "We are about to leave Cairo. We can't carry a cat to Luxor."
Once the matter was settled, the cat made no further objection to being removed. It was almost as if it had understood and approved the arrangements. Mr. Vincey was leaving the following day, he promised to deliver Anubis next morning. This duly transpired, and that evening Emerson and I and the cat took
the overnight train to Luxor
The cat was no trouble. It sat bolt upright on the seat opposite ours, staring out the window like a polite fellow passenger pretending not to eavesdrop on our conversation. This conversation was not, I am sorry to say, as free of acrimony as it might have been I admit the fault was mine. I was in an irritable mood. This had nothing to do with my discovery, upon arriving at the station, that Emerson had, unbeknownst to me, invited Abdullah and Daoud to accompany us. Our experienced foreman could be of great assistance, especially at Luxor, where he had been born and in which city he still had hordes of relations. There was no sensible reason why I should resent Abdullah's presence After they had helped us with our luggage, he and Daoud went off to find their own places.
"I don't understand why you were in such a hurry to get off," I said. "Mr. Vandergelt will be arriving in Cairo in a few days' time, we might have waited and traveled with him."
"You made that point earlier, Peabody. And I replied that I could see no sense in hanging around Cairo for an indefinite period. Vandergelt is a hopeless gad, he will want to attend dinner parties and make
eyes at the ladies. Besides, he will travel south on his cursed dahabeeyah."
"It was kind of him to offer us his house while we are in Luxor."
"It costs him nothing."
"How ungracious you are!"
And so on. Nothing of further interest occurred, even after the porter had made up our berths, for the surroundings were not conducive to a display of conjugal affection and Emerson claimed the cat was watching.
"It is on the floor, Emerson. It can't possibly see us— or you it."
"I can feel it watching," said Emerson.
However, I woke early to see the kiss of the sunrise summoning a rosy flush to the western cliffs, a sight that never fails to raise my spirits. An exchange of affectionate greetings with my husband (who took the precaution of draping a sheet over the sleeping cat before proceeding) completed the cure. We went directly from the station to the quay and hired a boat to take us and our gear across to the west bank.
Only an individual devoid of imagination and completely deficient in artistic appreciation could fail to be moved by the sight that met my eyes as I sat in the prow with the great sails billowing above and the morning breeze ruffling my hair On the opposite bank an emerald ribbon of fields and foliage bordered the river, beyond lay the desert, the Red Land of the ancient texts, and beyond that pale and sterile stretch rose the cliffs of the High Desert, through which the Nile had cut its path in prehistoric times. Gradually there appeared out of the mists shapes more visible perhaps to the imagination than the sight: magic castles rising from the foam, as the poet has put it— the ruined but majestic walls of the ancient temples.
(Upon further investigation I find the quotation is not entirely accurate. However, my version better captures the impression I was endeavoring to convey.)
Foremost among the temples, at least in my opinion, were the columned collonades of Deir el Bahri, the mortuary temple of the great female pharaoh Hatshepsut Not far from it was a more modern structure, invisible to my eyes but only too clear in my memory. Baskerville House, the scene of one of our most extraordinary detectival adventures.  It was now a forlorn and abandoned ruin, for the present Lord Baskerville had declined to preserve it, and small wonder, considering the horrible fate his predecessor had met while in residence. He had offered it to Cyrus Vandergelt, but the latter's memories of the ill-fated house were no more pleasant than his. "I wouldn't set foot in the consarned place for a million dollars," was how Cyrus put it in his quaint American idiom.
Cyrus had built a house of his own near the entrance to the Valley of the Kings. Money was no object to him, and I must say that his home was more notable for extravagance than good taste. It stood on a towering eminence overlooking the Valley, as our carriage approached, Emerson studied the turrets and towers and balconies in disgust, and remarked, "It is a positive monument to extravagance and bad taste.
I trust you won't take it as a model, Amelia."
"Mr. Vandergelt was inspired, I expect, by Crusaders' castles. There are a number of them in the Middle East."
"That is no excuse. Well, I suppose I must put up with it." Personally I did not find it difficult to "put up with" clean comfortable rooms and excellent service. Cyrus kept a skeleton staff always in residence, the caretaker greeted us with the assurance that we were expected, and that our rooms were ready. They were as elegantly appointed as in any modern hotel. Fine Oriental rugs covered the floors. Windows and doors were fitted with netting to keep out insects, and the rooms were kept cool by a method known
since the Middle Ages— porous earthenware jars in the mashrabiyya alcoves behind the windows.
After asking when we would like luncheon to be served, the major-domo bowed himself out and I began to strip off my travel-stained garments. Emerson prowled around opening wardrobe doors and investigating cabinets. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. "Vandergelt is no fool, if he is an American There
is a good solid lock on this cupboard. Just what I hoped to find."
From the small travel case he had carried in his own hand from Cairo he took the box containing the scepters and stowed it carefully away, putting the key in his trouser pocket after he had locked the cabinet. I heard the splash of water from the adjoining bathroom, the servants were not done filling the tub, so I wrapped myself in a robe and sat down to wait till they had finished. Cool drinks and an assortment of little cakes had been brought to us, I poured a glass of soda water
"What a fuss you are making about those scepters! If I had had any idea they would prey on your mind as they seem to I would have suggested we 'discover' them last spring while we were at Napata. That is the most logical place for them to be found, after all."
"Do you suppose I did not consider that? I am not such a fool as you believe."
"Now, Emerson, be calm. I did not mean to imply— "
"Such a discovery at Napata would have drawn every treasure hunter in Africa and aroused the cupidity of the natives. They would have torn the pyramids to bits."
"There isn't much left of them now," I pointed out.
Emerson ignored this. Pacing furiously, hands clasped behind his back, he went on, "There was another consideration I wanted the 'discovery' to be separated in time from Nefret's reappearance. If these
objects are found at Thebes they cannot possibly be connected with Willy Forth's lost city."
I saw the sense of his reasoning and candidly confessed as much. This put him in a better humor, and,
a tap at the door having announced that my bath was ready, I proceeded to take it.
After luncheon we assumed our working attire and set out for the Valley, accompanied by Abdullah and Daoud and the cat Abdullah was not a particular admirer of cats, and he viewed this one askance. Anubis responded, as cats will, by lavishing attention on poor Abdullah— twining around his ankles, leaping at
him out of hiding in kittenish fashion, pretending (I believe he was pretending) to attack the hem of his robe. Abdullah tried several times to kick him (he did it when he thought I was not looking, but I was). Needless to say, his foot never connected.
Though I would have preferred to dispense with Abdullah and Daoud, not to mention the cat, the expedition could not but delight me. To see Emerson in the costume that becomes him best, his waving black locks shining in the sun, his tanned and muscular forearms displayed by the rolled sleeves of his shirt,- to walk stride by stride with him, agile in my comfortable trousers to hear the musical clash of the tools depending from my belt and clasp the sturdy handle of my parasol Mere words cannot capture the exhilaration of that experience.
Instead of following the tourist road, we set off along a curving track that led northwest. The Valley of
the Kings— Biban el Muluk, literally "Gates of the Kings" in Arabic— is not one valley but two The one most frequently visited is the eastern valley, where the majority of the royal tombs of the Empire are located. It has been popular with tourists and explorers since Greek times, and in our own time it had become too crowded for comfort, thanks to such enterprising merchants as Mr. Cook, whose steamers brought hundreds of idle visitors to Luxor each season.