The Golden One: A Novel of Suspense (35 page)

Naturally, Emerson felt obliged to criticize me for encouraging Selim to tell a pack of lies and, with typical inconsistency, for telling Cyrus more than he deemed advisable. We had quite a refreshing little argument about it on the drive home. I had always felt somewhat guilty about keeping Cyrus in the dark — if he was in the dark. He was too intelligent and he knew us too well to overlook certain happenings. I had told him no more than he already suspected, and it pleased him to be taken into our confidence. He was even happier next day, when he found a new tomb. It wasn’t much of a tomb; the offering chapel had been completely destroyed and the burial chamber was empty of all but scraps, but there were several well-preserved paintings. “That will keep him out of mischief for a while,” remarked Emerson to me. “It will take several days to carry out a meticulous excavation and make plans. He can have Jumana to help him.” “Kind of you,” I said. “She gets on your nerves, doesn’t she?” “She talks too much. I almost preferred her moping. What did you do to get her out of it?” “Nothing — unless it was that nasty medicine. I hope there is not a sinister —” “Sinister, bah! There you go again, borrowing trouble.” “You are right, Emerson,” I admitted. “I am so accustomed to having some worry on my mind that it is difficult to realize our enemies have been vanquished and our problems solved.” “Except for one,” Emerson muttered. “ ‘The hand of the god.’ What god? Where?” Sennia joined us for tea that afternoon, so full of exciting news, she neglected the biscuits. “The Great Cat of Re has caught a snake!” We all looked at the cat, who had assumed one of those Yoga-like positions necessary for the proper cleaning of feline underparts. It looked so silly, with one leg in the air and the other behind its ear, we all burst out laughing. “A very large snake?” Emerson inquired. “No larger than this,” said Fatima, measuring approximately five inches with finger and thumb. “But it was still alive, Father of Curses, and I do not know whether there will be any dinner tonight, because it is still somewhere in the kitchen and Maaman says —” “It has probably escaped long ago,” Emerson said comfortably. “Then youtell Maaman,” said Fatima, thumping the teapot down on the table. “He says he will not cook.” “Oh, curse it,” said Emerson. “I suppose I’ll have to do something or we won’t get any dinner.” “Take the Great Cat of Re,” Sennia suggested. “Not a bad idea,” said Emerson, scooping the cat up. Sennia crammed two biscuits into her mouth and went with them. “Let’s go and watch,” Nefret suggested. “Jumana, have you ever seen the Father of Curses perform an exorcism? It will be even more entertaining if he works the cat into it.” Jumana shuddered. “I am afraid of snakes. I hope it does not go into my room.” I also declined the treat. I am not afraid of snakes, but I see no point in cultivating them. One of the men had gone to the post office that morning, so there was quite a stack of letters and messages and newspapers. By the time the others came back I had had a nice leisurely time, sorting the mail and reading the more interesting missives. “Did you find it?” I inquired. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” Emerson said. He deposited the cat on the floor, where it resumed its interrupted bath. “I hadn’t supposed we would, and was preparing an exorcism specifically designed for serpents, but the cat fished it out almost at once from behind one of the water jars. A perfectly harmless Clifford’s snake. Ramses took it outside and let it loose.” “I told you I have been training the Great Cat of Re,” Sennia said triumphantly. “Someday it will catch an even bigger snake and save Ramses’s life at the last second.” “Pure chance,” said Emerson — but he said it under his breath. “Anything in the post, Peabody?” “A nice long letter from Evelyn, and one for Nefret from Lia, and one for Ramses from David . . .” I distributed the missives as I spoke. “What about me?” Sennia demanded. “Three for you.” They were from the family. They knew she loved getting mail. “Nothing else?” I handed Emerson the rest of his letters. “Two telegrams from Cairo. I took the liberty —” “Yes, of course you did,” Emerson muttered. “Well, what do you think of that? Wingate and General Murray request my presence at my earliest convenience.” “I presume it will not be convenient early orlate,” I said. Emerson emitted a wicked chuckle. “Why do you suppose I made a quick departure from Cairo? We reported to General Chetwode, handed over our prisoner, and assured him and his intelligence staff that they’d seen the last of Ismail Pasha — which is true, since Sethos won’t use that disguise again. If they have any further questions they can come to us, but they will get damned few answers. Nothing from Carter or — er —” I shook my head. “Here is an interesting invitation, however. The Albions are giving a dinner party and dance on Friday. The honor of our presence is requested. There is a little note penned by Mrs. Albion herself, hoping that Jumana will also honor her.” “Me?” Jumana’s eyes opened very wide. “Her?” Emerson exclaimed. “What the devil for?” “She is one of the family,” Nefret said. “I expect they are trying to make up for . . . for any inadvertent rudeness in the past.” “They have not been rude,” Jumana said. “They sent me flowers, when I was sick.” “They did? You didn’t tell me.” “Many people sent me presents,” Jumana said proudly. “Bertie, and Mr. Vandergelt, and Daoud, and an American gentleman I met at Mr. Vandergelt’s party. Will we go? There will be dancing. I like to dance.” “I believe not,” I said. “Why not?” Emerson inquired. “It should be a — er — enjoyable outing.” “Emerson!” I exclaimed. “What are you up to now?” Emerson’s sapphirine-blue eyes met my own with a wholly unconvincing look of candor. “I only wish to give you pleasure, my dear. You like such things. It is the least a fellow can do.”

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Ramses knew perfectly well what his father was “up to.” Deny it as he might, he was as obsessed as Cyrus with Jamil’s tomb. In a way, Ramses couldn’t blame him. The words ran through his own head like a litany: The hand of the god. What god? Where? It was beginning to interfere with his personal life. Nefret shook him awake that night, complaining that he had been muttering the words in his sleep. “If you must talk in your sleep, you might at least mumble about me!” After he had apologized by reciting the epithets of Hathor — “Golden One, Lady of Fragrance, Mistress of All the Gods” — and acted upon them — she settled down with her head on his shoulder and admitted she couldn’t get that enigmatic clue out of her head either. “I’ve been wondering whether we ought not question Jumana again,” she said. “She has a fantastic memory and almost total recall, even for accents. Wasn’t it enchanting to hear her imitate Cyrus?” “It was rather uncanny hearing her imitate Jamil the day we found Mother and Father,” Ramses said. “Are you suggesting that if we asked the right questions she might remember something Jamil said about the tomb?” “That’s how her memory seems to operate.” “It’s worth a try, I suppose. We might even be able to talk Father out of breaking into the Albions’ suite.” “You’re joking. No, damn it, you aren’t!” He had told her of his conversation with Emerson. She had scoffed at the time, but now . . . “That’s why he agreed to go to their party!” she groaned. “What are we going to do?” “Make sure they don’t catch him in the act. He’s dead set on this, Nefret. I’ve been thinking about it and I don’t believe it will do any harm.” She relaxed against him and let out a breath of laughter. “Well, maybe not. Even if the worst happened — if someone found him in their rooms — he’d talk his way out of it.” “Shout, not talk,” Ramses corrected. “What could they do to him, after all? There isn’t a man in Luxor who would dare interfere with him.” All the same, he was a little on edge the night of the party. His father had readily admitted he meant to search the Albions’ rooms; he had raised the subject himself, overruling Ramses’s half-hearted protests and requesting his assistance. “I will signal you when I’m ready to act. Keep an eye on the Albions. If one of them starts to leave the ballroom — well, you will know what to do.” “Start a fight with Sebastian, for example? All right, Father, I’ll think of something. I hope. You will be in disguise, I suppose.” His father grinned happily. “Just the usual, my boy, just the usual. Er — might I borrow a beard? Your mother must have done something with mine, I can’t find it. Oh, and if she asks where I am, put her off somehow.” It wouldn’t be easy, keeping tabs on three people and fending his mother off, but Ramses thought he could manage it with Nefret’s assistance. He only hoped his mother didn’t have ideas of her own. She looked very handsome that evening, in a gown of her favorite crimson, the diamonds in her ears sparkling. Nefret was radiant in amber satin, and Jumana looked like any young girl on her way to a dance — eyes shining, cheeks flushed. The Albions had hired the entire hotel, or at least the public rooms, including the dining saloon. That presented no problem to the management, since the convalescent officers who occupied part of the hotel had all been invited. Everyone in Luxor seemed to be there, including the Vandergelts. Mr. Albion’s money and his wife’s good taste made it quite a splendid affair; the wine flowed freely and the food was excellent. After dinner, when the dancing was about to begin, Ramses edged up to his father. “Is there any way I can persuade you not to do this?” “Now, now, my boy, it will be all right, you’ll see.” Emerson plucked irritably at his tie. It looked wilted. “I am going to dance with your mother and Katherine, and then give our hostess a whirl, and after that I will quietly steal away.” “Have you asked Mrs. Albion? The ladies have dance cards. You’re supposed to put your name down for a particular dance.” “Absurd. Dancing should be spontaneous. Joie de vivre and that sort of thing.” He strolled away, his hands in his pockets. Ramses also approved of joie de vivre, but he had been lectured by his mother and his wife about proper procedure. He’d never been able to see the point of the little cards — appointment slips, one might call them — unless it was to give popular ladies a sense of power, and make unpopular ladies squirm when they saw all the blank spaces. Jumana was loving every moment of it — the flowers, the fancy dresses, the little booklet and pencil attached to her slim wrist by a golden cord. When Ramses asked for a dance she presented the booklet with an air of great importance and an irrepressible giggle. He needn’t have worried about her being neglected; Bertie and Cyrus had signed on, and so had both the Albions. There were several other names Ramses didn’t know. She had attracted quite a lot of attention, with her exotic looks and exquisite little figure. He had allowed himself the pleasure of engaging his wife for the second dance; as they circled the floor, he warned her of his father’s intentions. Emerson was waltzing with Katherine, looking as if butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “How are we supposed to watch three people at once?” Nefret grumbled. “With everything else that’s going on? I promised Mother I’d make sure Jumana is enjoying herself.” “Obviously she is.” White skirts flaring, Jumana was light as thistledown in the respectful grasp of a tall American Ramses remembered having met at Cyrus’s soiree. “Mr. Lubancic,” Nefret said, following his gaze. “He’s very nice. I’ve got Mr. Albion for the third dance and you for the fourth; suppose I corner Sebastian for that one instead, and you ask Mrs. Albion.” “I suppose I can’t very well dance with Mr. Albion. We’ll just have to be prepared for emergency action. Be ready to faint or pretend you’ve seen a mouse if I give a distress signal.” She laughed and nestled closer. The third dance ended only too soon. As he had promised, Emerson had got hold of his hostess, whose frozen features kept cracking in pain as he spun her vigorously round in waltz time. (The tune was a fox-trot.) When the music ended he led her, limping, to a chair and then turned to give Ramses an exaggerated wink and nod. Mrs. Albion declined Ramses’s invitation to dance. She looked as if she did not intend to move for some time. Nefret had worked her wiles on Sebastian, so Ramses went in search of Albion senior. He found him in one of the alcoves talking to Jumana. “Don’t ask her to dance, this one is mine,” Albion said, with one of his jolly laughs. “I can’t prance around with the young folks, but we’re having a nice time talking Egyptology. She’s a clever girl.” “She is,” Ramses agreed, glancing at the glass she held. “That isn’t champagne, is it?” “Soda water,” Albion said. “You don’t think I’d ply a young lady with alcohol, do you?” The answer to that was a resounding “Yes, if you hoped to gain something by it.” Since courtesy forbade honesty, Ramses said, “I’ll join you, if I may. What were you talking about?” “Those sites your pa told me about” was the prompt reply. “We’ve just about decided not to do any more digging. The young lady agrees with me that it’s a waste of time.” “The western wadis are too far away and too dangerous,” Jumana explained. “And there is nothing in that part of the Valley of the Queens.” “Father will be glad to hear that,” Ramses said. The music ended. Jumana looked at her dance card. “The next one is Bertie,” she announced importantly. “Will you excuse me, sir?” “Why, sure. You go right ahead.” Trying to watch all three Albions and fulfill his social obligations kept Ramses fully occupied for a while. Mr. Albion wouldn’t stay put; he wandered around the room, talking to his wife and to various other people. Seeing Mrs. Albion head purposefully for the door of the ballroom, Ramses caught Nefret’s eye, gestured, and trod on Katherine’s toe. Nefret went in pursuit, abandoning her partner. “I beg your pardon, Katherine,” Ramses said. “Quite all right, my dear. Is your injury bothering you? Perhaps we should sit down.” “What? Oh, that. Well, yes, a little. Not much. It’s all right.” He’d lost sight of Sebastian too. What was taking his father so long? Mrs. Albion came back, followed by Nefret. Her nod and smile reassured him; they must have gone to the ladies’ parlor. He was still scanning the room, trying to locate Sebastian, when he caught sight of his father. He let his breath out in a sigh that ruffled Katherine’s hair. “Let’s do sit down, Ramses,” she said. “Did I tread on your foot again?” “No, dear, but the music has stopped.” Her husband claimed her for the next dance, and Ramses headed straight for his father. Emerson’s appearance would have roused his wife’s direst suspicions. His hair was standing on end, his tie had come undone, and his smile was reminiscent of that of the Great Cat of Re after a tasty meal. Ramses drew him aside. “Here, let me fix your tie before Mother sees you.” “What’s wrong with it? Oh.” Emerson glanced down. “Thank you, my boy.” “Well?” Ramses demanded. “It went off without a hitch. What did you expect?” “Did you find anything?” “Oh, yes.” “Don’t do this to me, Father.” He jerked the knot tight. “I can’t tell you about it now,” Emerson said reproachfully. “But in a word — Oh, curse it. Hullo, Bertie. Were you looking for me? I just stepped out into the garden for —” “No, sir. That is — did you see Jumana?” “In the garden? Er — no.” “Is something wrong, Bertie?” Ramses asked. Bertie passed his hand over his hair. “It’s just that this is my dance, and I can’t find her. She was with Sebastian, and he doesn’t seem to be in the room either.” “They must be around somewhere,” Emerson said vaguely. “Damn! There’s your mother. Your mother, I mean, Ramses. Am I supposed to be dancing with her?” “I’ve no idea,” Ramses said. His mother was advancing on them with a firm stride and a look in her eyes that boded ill for Emerson. “You had better report to her, she probably noticed you were conspicuous by your absence.” “Jumana —” Bertie began. “Yes, right. I expect she’s gone to the ladies’ parlor. Let’s ask Nefret.” Nefret had just returned from the ladies’ parlor. “Mrs. Albion has gone there three times! She keeps taking off her gloves and washing her hands. I hate to speculate about why. Is Father —” “Dancing with Mother,” Ramses said. “Thank goodness!” “Yes, but Jumana has gone missing,” Ramses said. “She wasn’t in the ladies’ parlor?” “Sebastian’s not here either,” Bertie said. “Oh, dear. I’m sorry, I rather lost track of her, what with . . . one thing and another. Perhaps she stepped out into the garden for a breath of fresh air.” “The Professor just came in from the garden. He said he hadn’t seen her. But he wouldn’t have, would he, if they were off in a dark corner somewhere.” “There is no reason to suppose they are together, Bertie,” Nefret said. “But we’ll have a look round.” The gardens were one of the showplaces of Luxor, planted with exotic trees and shrubs. They, too, had been decorated for the occasion; colorful lanterns hung from the branches, and benches and chairs were scattered about. A number of the guests were enjoying the cool air and the scent of night blossoms. Winding paths led in and out of the shrubbery. “You go that way,” Bertie said. “I’ll go the other.” Nefret would have been the first to admit she had been remiss, but she couldn’t believe there was any real danger to Jumana. Not here, in the public gardens, with so many people about. If the girl had let Sebastian bring her here, she was guilty of nothing worse than indiscretion. Nefret had a sinking feeling she wasn’t going to convince Bertie of that. His jaw was set. “I’m coming with you,” she said. “Wait for me.” He had already plunged into the nearest path. She picked up her skirts and ran after him. They had almost reached the end of the path, where it curved back toward the hotel, before Nefret heard a man’s voice, low and intimate, the words indistinguishable; and Jumana’s reply, high-pitched and quavering. “No, I am not afraid, but I want to go back now.” Sebastian laughed softly. “Not yet.” Nefret filled her lungs and shouted, “Jumana!” Jumana came flying out of the shadows. Bertie went flying into them. He dragged Sebastian out into the light and raised his fist. “Stop them,” Nefret exclaimed. “They’re going to fight!” “It looks that way,” said Ramses, behind her. “Go ahead, Bertie, give him a good one.” Bertie let go of Sebastian’s lapel and stepped back. “He’s wearing eyeglasses. I can’t hit a chap who —” Sebastian’s fist connected neatly and scientifically with Bertie’s jaw, knocking him over backward.