Tomb of the Golden Bird (10 page)

asked Charla, who had been occupied with the plate of biscuits. "Your grandfather only means that Mr. Breasted will be very busy," I explained, before Emerson could reply with the truth. In his opinion Breasted had never given Ramses the credit he deserved. "Cheer up, Emerson, things will quiet down once Howard has closed the tomb again." "Why will he do that?" asked Charla, leaning against her grandfather's knee. He patted her black curls, a familiarity she permitted from no one else. "He cannot leave it open while he collects supplies and assistants," I explained. "He will need film, packing materials, and a hundred other things. And people who are experienced in working with delicate objects." "He should ask Papa and Grandpapa to help, then." "Go and—and throw sticks for Amira, Charla. Outside, if you please. The dog, lying athwart the threshold, jumped up, barking. Charla rushed out and they were soon locked in a fond embrace, which ended with both rolling about on the ground. David John's fair head was bent over a chessboard, with Sethos as his opponent. The boy had been taught the game the past summer by his uncle Walter. It was difficult to find reading material suitable for a juvenile mind; after finding David John immersed in Dracula, his blond hair virtually standing on end, Walter had proposed chess as an alternative. It had seemed like a good idea at the time. Charla's talents lay in other areas. Intimidation, for instance. "Any luck?" I asked of Ramses. "Only in a negative sense." He came to take a from me and lowered his voice. Though apparently absorbed in the game, David John had an unnerving ability to overhear what he was not supposed to hear. "The commonest codes consist of letters of the alphabet," Ramses explained. "Rearranged according to some pre-established system. B for A, C for B, and so on. That's the simplest variation, and the simplest to crack. Even more complex substitution ciphers can be decoded fairly easily, on the basis of letter frequency and repetition. In theory one could set up a system using numbers instead of letters, but. . . Confound it, Mother, I'm no expert. I played with simple codes like the ones I've described when I was a child, but it was only a game." "So there is no hope of deciphering the message?" I asked. Ramses ran his fingers through his disheveled locks. "I think—mind you, it's only a guess—that the numbers refer to a book or manuscript. The numbers can be broken into groups of threes, which would indicate the page of the book, the line on the page, and the word or letter in the line. Probably the word. Let's suppose that the manuscript Sethos found was the master copy. When other copies were dispatched to members of the organization, they already had the book in their possession. They would be able to read this message, and any other that might be sent. But we don't have it. How many millions of books do you suppose there are in this wide world?" "Surely there are some obvious choices," I said. "Books one would find in most households." "Oh, yes. The Bible and the Koran come to mind. Do you know how many different editions of each are in print? And before you can ask," he went on, in mounting exasperation, "it did occur to me that the numbers might be references to verses or suras or chapters. In what language? Arabic, Hebrew, English?" With a malevolent look at Sethos, he added, "You ought to have examined the gentleman's bookshelves." There was no sensible reply to this unfair charge, and Sethos did not attempt to make one. With wrinkled brow he was studying the board. His queen seemed to be in imminent peril. "It's late," Nefret said. "And Charla is filthy, she's been rolling roundon the ground with Amira. Come, David John. You can finish yourgame tomorrow." "I have finished," said David John, moving a piece. "Checkmate, sir." After the children had been  removed,  I said  to  Sethos,  "Youshouldn't have let him win." "I didn't let him win," said Sethos. From Manuscript H It could not be said that many of their seasons in Egypt had lacked distraction, but to Ramses this was one of the worst. Not only did they have a wanted fugitive hiding out with them, but the discovery of Tutankhamon'stomb would bring half the world to the small town of Luxor. There was no question of keeping the find a secret. It had been known, and exaggerated, by the citizens of Luxor almost from the first moment. Arthur Merton, the Times correspondent, had been allowed into the tomb on November 30, and had wired his dispatch the same day. Representatives of the Cairo newspapers had begun to arrive. The hotels were full and some of the dragomen were wooing tourists by telling them about the great discovery and offering to show it to them. By December 3, there was nothing much to see, since Carter had refilled the tomb, but that didn't deter the curious. The sheer numbers of strangers provided perfect cover for assassins. If Sethos's adversaries hadn't become suspicious of "Anthony Bissinghurst" by now, they weren't the professionals Ramses believed them to be. His premonitions turned out to be correct, but not in the way he expected. One night shortly after the tomb had been refilled, they were sitting on the veranda after dinner when they heard hoofbeats approaching. "Someone's in a hurry," Ramses said, going to the door. "Good Lord, it's Bertie. What's wrong?" "Can Nefret come? Right away?" "Of course." Nefret rose without haste, her voice taking on its note of professional calm. "Who is ill, Bertie? Your mother?" "No, thank God. That is . . ." He removed his hat. "Sorry. I'm afraid I rather lost my head. It's not a matter of life and death, I suppose, but he's an awful sight, covered with blood and—" "Cyrus?" Emerson demanded. "Nadji. He went over to Luxor this evening, and we were just starting to worry about him when he staggered in, covered with blood and—" "Let me get my medical bag," Nefret said. "I will start the motorcar," Emerson exclaimed. "We will take the horses," his wife said, putting her embroidery back in its bag. "Now, Peabody, the motorcar is in perfect condition. Selim and I had it out for a spin yesterday." "The steering apparatus came loose." "But the brakes worked," Emerson said triumphantly. "And Selim has repaired—" "No, Emerson. Not in the dark and along that road." Ramses slipped out. By the time the others reached the stables he had roused Jamad and saddled Risha and Nefret's Moonlight. Nefret hurried in, bag in hand, while, at his mother's insistence, several other mounts, including hers, were being saddled. He had known it was a forlorn hope that she would remain behind. "We'll go on ahead," Nefret announced. "With Bertie." "Aren't you coming?" Ramses asked Sethos. Hands thrust into his pockets, he stared unenthusiastically at the mare Jamad was saddling, and then shrugged. "I suppose I ought." Ramses left them to it, following his wife out the open gate and along the road. Nefret set a rapid pace. The Castle shone through the dark like a public monument, and the gates were open. Hastily dismounting, they hurried into the house, where Cyrus was waiting. "Sorry if we scared you," he said. "Cat says it's not as bad as it looked, but Bertie got worked up and—" "Don't apologize, Cyrus," Nefret said. "Where is he?" Nadji had been put to bed in his own room. Though Katherine had sponged off his face and bared chest, he was still a nasty sight. When he saw Nefret he smiled apologetically "They should not have bothered you. Mrs. Vandergelt is a good nurse and I am not much hurt." "You look like hell," Ramses said, studying the bruises and cuts and the blood matted in his hair. "What happened? Should he talk, Nefret?" She had given the exposed parts of his body a quick inspection. Now she pulled down the sheet that covered him to the waist. He was wearing loose drawers, but he let out a cry of protest. "I'll go," Katherine said tactfully. "You mustn't mind Dr. Emerson, Nadji, she is accustomed to—er—this." Cyrus or one of the male servants must have helped him undress and change clothes, Ramses thought. Brick-red with embarrassment, Nadji looked even younger than his real age, which was probably in the early twenties, but he swallowed and tried to pretend he was accustomed to being examined by a woman. "Aywa. Yes. Of course, I understand." Fortunately Nefret had finished checking the lower part of his body before the rest of the party burst in. Nefret smoothly raised the sheet as Nadji started convulsively. "It could be worse," she reported, before her mother-in-law could demand details. "He got a nasty thump on the head, but there's no sign of concussion. Looks as if someone went at him with a club and another someone with a knife." "What happened?" Emerson demanded, looming over the bed. "Just a minute, Father." Nefret stirred drops into a glass of water and held it to Nadji's lips. "Drink this, it will help the pain while I disinfect these cuts." "I will assist," said her mother-in-law eagerly. "Not necessary, Mother." Nadji let out a sigh of relief and let his head fall back on the pillow. Obviously the Sitt Hakim terrified him even more than her formidable husband. "I will tell you, Father of Curses, what little I know. I had gone to a coffeeshop in Luxor, and when I started back toward the landing two men attacked me. I do not know who they were, their faces were covered, but I took them for ordinary thieves. At first I fought back, but I was losing and no one answered my calls for help, so then I thought, ifit is my money they want, let them take it. I fell on the ground. They went on kicking and pulling at my clothing, and I had visions of Paradise and believed I would die. Then . . ." His brow furrowed. "Then I thought I heard a far-off voice say, 'Fools. A man may increase his height but not lessen it.' It must have a been a dream, for the words make no sense." Not to him, perhaps. Ramses looked at his uncle, standing silently in the corner. "What happened then?" Emerson asked. "I fainted," Nadji said simply. "When I woke no one was there. So I came here. I am sorry, Mr. Vandergelt, that I was late." Cyrus patted him on the shoulder. "Not your fault, my boy. How do you feel?" "Sleepy." He flinched a little as Nefret dabbed antiseptic on the head wound. "The worst is over," she said. "You should have been wearing your turban." "They pulled it off." Nadji let out a weak giggle. "They pulled at my hair too. It hurt." He had talked more that night than in the entire time they had known him, Ramses thought. Talked sensibly . . . even glibly. As if he had thought his story out in advance. "Sleep now." Nefret pulled the sheet up to the patient's chin. "I will leave more medicine. You'll need it tomorrow morning, because you will be stiff and sore." "How is he? What happened to him?" Suzanne was waiting outside the door. She had kept out of the way until then, and Ramses couldn't help thinking her inquiry sounded somewhat perfunctory. They assured her that the attack had been an ordinary attempt at robbery, and that Nadji had not been much hurt. "Can I do anything to help?" The question was directed at Cyrus, and accompanied by one of her sweetest smiles. Picturing Nadji's face if the girl was allowed to sit by his bedside, Ramses assured her that her assistance was not needed. They refused Cyrus's invitation to stay for a drink. He was eager todiscuss the revelations of the evening, but it couldn't be done in the presence of Katherine and Suzanne. Ramses knew they would have to take Cyrus into their confidence before long. His mother had told him what Cyrus had said about Sethos: "Whenever that fellow turns up it means trouble." Ramses couldn't have agreed more. They had managed to put their old friend off so far, but Cyrus was too shrewd to miss that revealing statement Nadji had overheard from his attackers. It could only mean that they had mistaken the young man for someone else. And, given his checkered past, Sethos was the logical suspect. They held the horses to a walk so they could talk. Sethos edged close to his brother. "Congratulations," said Emerson, who had observed this maneuver. "Once again an innocent took the beating meant for you." Sethos didn't bother to deny it. "They're getting closer. Why did they pick on him?" "Because not even you could disguise yourself as a petite Frenchwoman," Nefret said. "Then that only leaves Anthony Bissinghurst, doesn't it?" "Not necessarily," Ramses said grudgingly. He didn't at all mind seeing his uncle in a state of nerves. "I wonder if attacks on male tourists have increased recently?" "I wouldn't be at all surprised if they had," Sethos said, cheering up. "I could be anybody, even a tourist." "Until Margaret turns up," Ramses said. "I can't imagine what's been keeping her." "She may not have been in England when the rumors about the tomb began," Nefret said. "She'll certainly have heard the news by now," Emerson said. "Merton's article was in the Times on the thirtieth. If she left right away she could be here any day now." "Hmmm," said his wife. "What's that supposed to mean?" Emerson demanded. "It means that we will deal with Margaret when the time comes. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof." The day wasn't over. Daoud and Selim were waiting on the veranda. The former's face was grave. "Now what?" Emerson demanded. It took a great deal to wipe the smile from Daoud's face.       "Bad news, Father of Curses." "We know about the attack on Nadji. We've just come from there," Ramses said. "He isn't much hurt." Daoud shook his head. "Not that, Ramses. It is worse, much worse." "You make it worse," Selim said emphatically. "It was an accident, meaningless—" "For God's sake," Emerson shouted. "What has happened?" "The golden bird," Daoud intoned. "It has been eaten by a cobra, the defender of the pharaoh. It means death to those who invade his tomb." Chapter Five From Manuscript H (Continued) Lord Carnarvon and his daughter left for cairo and England on the fourth of December. Ramses happened to be in Luxor that day on business of his own, so he was privileged to see their procession sweep through town with all the fanfare of a royal progress, surrounded by admirers and followed by the press. Carnarvon passed him without a glance. Perhaps he didn't see me, Ramses thought charitably. Carter did see him. He raised one hand in a half-hearted salute before hurrying on. Carter followed his patron to Cairo two days later. According to Daoud, he was saddened by the loss of his bird, but refused to understand the dire implications, which were evident to every sensible individual. "Bah," said Emerson. "It was only a bird, and cobras are not uncommon." "But the omen of the golden bird was true," Daoud replied. "The golden tomb was found. And is not the cobra the symbol of the pharaoh?" "He has you there, Father," said Ramses. "So you should be grateful to God that you are not the
one who found the tomb," Daoud said earnestly. He bade them a ceremonial farewell and went off in something of a hurry. It was almost time for sunset prayers. Ramses didn't doubt the entire Emerson family would be featured in those prayers. "We had better not tell him we've been inside the cursed—excuse me—place," he said. "Not only the tomb, but the burial chamber itself," his mother remarked. "Don't underestimate Daoud. I'll wager he knows. He's hoping we weren't there long enough to arouse the royal wrath." "If he knows, why didn't he say so?" Nefret asked. "It isn't like Daoud to keep secrets to himself." "Don't underestimate him," her mother-in-law said again. "Daoud can keep a secret when he is persuaded it is necessary." That afternoon they had a visit from Herbert Winlock and George Barton. Their friends were always welcome for tea, but it had been some time since any of the Metropolitan Museum crew had stopped by. Win-lock was one of what Emerson called "the younger generation of Egyptologists," being approximately the same age as Ramses, though his rapidly receding hairline made him look older. He was a brilliant excavator and a genial host when the Americans entertained at their Luxor headquarters. He greeted them without self-consciousness, but Ramses thought Barton looked somewhat uncomfortable. A gawky, exuberant man, he had developed what Ramses's mother called a "crush" on Nefret, and had a tendency to stare admiringly and unnervingly at her. After his mother had served the tea and Winlock had asked about their work in the West Valley, he got to the point. "I understand you've fallen out with Carter and Carnarvon." "Where did you hear that?" asked Emerson. "From Carnarvon." "Did he tell you that he was in the Valley that night?" "He denies he was there. Says you invented the story in order to cover up your own illegal entry into the tomb and your theft of several valuable items." "Qui s'excuse, s'accuse," Ramses murmured. His mother, stiff with indignation, said, "Or rather, he who accuses another seeks to excuse himself. How contemptible!"