Tomb of the Golden Bird, page 6
Howard greeted us warmly (which did not dispel my suspicion that the invitation had not been his idea, but Emerson’s). We took drinks in the domed reception hall. It was simply but comfortably furnished, with low chairs and settees and brass tables. Howard introduced us to his new pet, a little yellow canary. Nefret, who shared Howard’s fondness for animals, went at once to the cage and chirped at the pretty creature. It tilted its head and chirped back.
“Charming,” I said.
Emerson grunted. “I hope it meets a happier fate than some of your other pets, Carter. What with feral cats and hawks—”
“Oh, I shan’t let it out of its cage,” Howard said. He put his finger into the cage. The canary hopped onto it and let out a melodious trill. He added, “The men say it is a bird of good omen. A golden bird foretells a golden discovery this season.”
We went into the dining room and Emerson, who felt he had wasted enough time on the amenities, asked what luck Howard had had in the antiquities shops of Cairo. Howard shrugged. “Not much. I hope to do better here in Luxor.”
He took a spoonful of soup and made a face. “I must apologize for my cook. He has not the skill of your Maaman.”
The meal was in fact rather bad—the soup overseasoned, the beef tough, the vegetables stewed to mush. Naturally I did not say so.
After dinner Howard showed us his acquisitions. One was rather charming—a cosmetic pot consisting of seven joined cylinders, each of which had contained a different variety of paint for face and hands. Howard shrugged my admiration aside. “It isn’t the sort of thing that will excite his lordship. Do you happen to know of any artifacts at the Luxor dealers? Anything Vandergelt hasn’t already got his hands on,” he added somewhat sourly.
“Mr. Vandergelt only arrived this morning, so you may be able to get in ahead of him,” Ramses replied with a smile. “However, we haven’t heard of anything unusual.”
“I’ll go round to Mohassib’s first thing in the morning,” Howard said.
“So you don’t mean to start work immediately?” Emerson asked.
Howard didn’t miss the implicit criticism. “I see no reason for haste. His lordship will not be out for several more weeks, and it won’t take us long to clear that small section.”
“And then what?” Emerson asked.
Howard motioned to the hovering attendant to refill his wineglass. “That will be up to his lordship.”
Some persons might have accepted this evasion and not pursued the subject. Not Emerson. “Do you hope to persuade him into continuing in the East Valley?”
“If Tutankhamon isn’t in my little triangle, he must be somewhere,” Howard declared.
“Not necessarily,” Emerson said. “That is—not necessarily in the East Valley.” He immediately looked as if he regretted having said so much, adding, “His is not the only royal tomb we haven’t located.”
“But his is the one I’m after,” Howard said. He leaned forward, planting his elbows on the table—a vulgar habit which, I am sorry to say, was shared by my husband, who did the same. “You know that, Emerson, old chap,” Howard went on. “You told me last year—didn’t you?—that I ought to keep on looking. ’Preciate your advice. Your help.”
Emerson, who had done his best to send Howard to another part of the Valley, had the decency to look embarrassed.
“It’ll be empty, like all the rest,” Howard said sadly. “If it’s there.”
From the bird in the adjoining room came a ripple of song.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Ramses was not surprised that his father should dismiss the search for Sethos, to quote his mother. (She had a penchant for colorful phrases.) Emerson was obsessed. Why he believed that Carter would find a tomb in the unpromising little triangle of ground Ramses did not know. Perhaps he had no real evidence, only a feeling, a hunch; but as Ramses knew, the greatest excavators develop an instinct for discovery. It had happened over and over again, especially to the untrained but phenomenally successful tomb robbers of Luxor. Emerson’s instincts were as great as theirs.
He had to control himself, fuming, while Howard Carter made the rounds of the Luxor dealers. At Cyrus’s urging he agreed to open their own excavation in the West Valley, but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead of badgering the men who were finishing the clearance of the tomb of Ay, where they had worked the year before, he wandered around the far end of the West Valley with Bertie and Jumana in tow. He was looking for new tomb entrances. He didn’t find any.
They heard nothing more from the men who had lured them to the shop. The more Ramses thought about it, the more he was inclined to agree with his father. It had been a singularly inept and pointless ambush. The men must have been strangers, since no local man would believe the Father of Curses could be so easily intimidated. Selim had been unable to find any trace of them, and his contacts were extensive. The gatekeeper reported no inquisitive strangers, the dog didn’t bark in the nighttime. But then she wouldn’t, Ramses thought, unless someone approached the children’s window. Amira was the possessor of a very pretentious doghouse, designed by David. Charla had assisted him, so the house had a minaret, a veranda, and carpets throughout. The dog had refused to sleep in it, though, until they moved it under the children’s window.
The apparent absence of activity didn’t reassure Ramses. During his war years he had acquired a sort of sixth sense about being watched—it was a necessary survival trait—and he knew the watchers were out there, somewhere. The ambush might have been a feint, a crude attempt to distract them from more subtle methods.
He didn’t like uncertainty, and there were too many unsettled problems. They were in the West Valley on sufferance, since technically it was part of Carnarvon’s concession. If they did find any new tombs, Carnarvon was sure to take over, especially if his excavation in the East Valley came up empty. There had been no further discussion about Nefret and him moving to Cairo for the winter, but he knew his mother had not abandoned the scheme.
And where the devil was Sethos?
He didn’t suppose his mother would put up with this state of affairs for long. She brought matters to a head one evening when the Vandergelts were dining with them. The cook had prepared all Emerson’s favorite dishes and he had almost finished his postprandial whiskey and soda before his wife cleared her throat portentously.
“I have a few things to discuss with you, Emerson. No, my friends, don’t go. We have nothing to hide from you.”
“She believes I will behave better with you here,” Emerson explained. Replete and relaxed, he was in an affable mood, his pipe in one hand and his glass in the other. “Very well, Peabody, have at me.”
The affability lasted only until she mentioned her intention of hiring new staff. Emerson sputtered and glared. When she went on to inform him that the younger Emersons planned to spend the winter in Cairo, Ramses braced himself for an explosion. Emerson’s reaction was worse. His massive form seemed to shrink.
“Is this what you want, my boy?” he asked in faltering tones.
“No, sir. That is—we haven’t really…That is…” He gave Nefret a helpless look. She came to sit on the arm of Emerson’s chair and put her arm round his bowed shoulders.
“We’ve talked of it, Father, but we haven’t come to a decision.”
“It’s up to you, of course.” Emerson fumbled for a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly. “I shall miss the kiddies.”
Now that, Ramses thought, was a bit too much. Emerson’s emotions were completely sincere, but instead of shouting he was using guile to get his own way.
“Shame on you, Emerson,” said his wife coldly.
Cyrus, who hadn’t ventured to speak until then, said tentatively, “If you want my opinion…”
“I don’t,” said Emerson, forgetting his role.
“I do,” said his wife. “We are all in this together when it comes to our plans for the remainder of this season and for seasons to come. It is agreed, is it not, that we wish to continue the arrangement that has proved so successful—combining our forces into a single group?”
“Nothing would please me more,” Cyrus exclaimed. “It would only be making it official. I’m no Egyptologist, and I would be more than happy to have Emerson take over as director.”
“Hmph,” said Emerson. “Well…”
“Excellent,” said his wife briskly. “We cannot continue in the West Valley indefinitely. It was a temporary arrangement in any case. We must settle on another site and add to our staff.”
“I tell you what we need,” said Cyrus. “An artist. I don’t suppose Mr. or Mrs. Davies would be available?”
“No, no,” Emerson said. “Not a chance. They have other commitments. But David—”
“Also has other commitments,” said his wife, in a tone that brooked no argument. “What about that young Frenchwoman, Mlle. Malraux?”
She had done it again. Emerson became so involved in arguing about details that he tacitly conceded her point. She made two of her little lists, one of sites they should consider, and another of potential staff members.
“I shall just pop up to Cairo tomorrow, then,” she announced.
“What for?” Emerson demanded suspiciously.
In a tone of exaggerated patience, she replied, “To interview possible staff members, inform M. Lacau of our new arrangement, and ask his advice about another site. Unless you would prefer to go in my stead?”
Faced with several chores he detested plus abandoning his surveillance of Howard Carter, Emerson gave in without a struggle—as she had known he would.
Ramses managed to get a word alone with her after the Vandergelts had left. “You aren’t going to look at houses for us, are you?”
“I doubt there will be time,” she replied, studying her lists. “I don’t want to be away too long. Try to prevent your father from bullying Howard.”
“Yes, Mother. You’ve something else on your mental list, haven’t you?”
She looked up at him, her face grave. “We are still under surveillance.”
“I’ve been keeping an eye out. Haven’t seen anything suspicious.”
“But you have felt it. So have I. One develops certain instincts.”
“One does,” Ramses agreed. He couldn’t help asking the question. “Have you dreamed of Abdullah lately?”
“You’ve always scoffed at those dreams.”
“Now, Mother, I never have.”
Nor had he, not in so many words. When she first spoke of those unusual, vivid dreams of their former reis, he had been happy she believed in their reality, for they comforted her. Abdullah had sacrificed his life to save hers, but the bond between them had already been strong. She and the old Egyptian had come to care for each other in a way he would once have believed impossible, considering the differences in their backgrounds and beliefs. Gratitude and strong affection, the denial of loss, might reasonably account for her need to believe the people she had loved were not gone from her forever. He couldn’t say precisely when he had begun to share her faith in her dreams. Perhaps it was the sheer strength of her belief.
“I will certainly ask him about Sethos when next I see him,” she said, straight-faced. “Until I do I will have to rely on less reliable sources. I mean to call on Mr. Smith while I am in Cairo. He wouldn’t confide information in a telegram, but a face-to-face interview may be more productive.”
Ramses didn’t doubt that. She had her methods.
“Shall I give him your regards?” she asked.
She knew how he felt about Smith, who exemplified to him the faults of the intelligence services. They didn’t give a damn about how many lives they destroyed in the pursuit of their self-defined duty. He had hated every second of the time he spent working for them. “No,” he said.
I had a busy day in Cairo, one that taxed even my energy. I had not made an appointment with M. Lacau, but I did not anticipate any difficulty in seeing him, and so it proved. I think he was so relieved to find himself dealing with me instead of with Emerson that he would have agreed to anything I asked. But in fact, he and Emerson were on reasonably good terms these days. (Emerson could not be said to be on excellent terms with very many Egyptologists.) We had preserved for the Museum some of its greatest treasures, risking our own lives in the process, and Lacau was not ungrateful. He was a distinguished-looking man, with white hair and beard, so meticulous in his habits that people said he made lists of lists. (An excellent idea, in my opinion.) He bowed me into his office with the utmost courtesy, and for a while we chatted of generalities, including the director’s recent statement about the partage (division) of artifacts discovered by foreign expeditions.
“Some arrogant excavators behave as if the entire land of Egypt were their own personal preserve,” Lacau declared. His beard bristled. “I intend to tighten the laws so that the great majority of objects remain, as they should, in Egypt.”
“Emerson is in full agreement with you, sir,” I said truthfully. “You may count on his support. And mine, of course.”
After that, M. Lacau would have acceded to my slightest wish.
My next appointments were with the young persons I was considering as potential staff members. I had selected two for further consideration. Having spoken at greater length with Mlle. Malraux, and observed Nefret’s warm reception of the girl, I had decided my initial reservations were unfounded. She was a vivacious little creature, bubbling with enthusiasm, but one’s initial impression of prettiness was based on her manner rather than the regularity of her features, and there was something a little unnerving about her eyes; the blue pupils were entirely surrounded by milky white, so that she appeared to be in a permanent state of surprise or alarm. However, physiognomy is not an accurate indicator of character, and the portfolio she had brought impressed me. An archaeological artist has different qualifications from those of a painter; he or she must be capable not only of accurate copying, but of a certain feeling for the techniques and beliefs of the culture. I was particularly struck with a watercolor she had done of the head of a mummy in the Louvre.
My other candidate was the opposite of mademoiselle in almost every way, and a contradiction in himself. He had one of the jolliest faces I had ever beheld, round-cheeked, smiling, eyes beaming goodwill. One would have expected such a cheery-looking man to bubble as mademoiselle did; but Nadji Farid appeared to be very shy. He sat with eyes lowered and spoke only when he was spoken to, in a soft, melodious voice. However, what he said when he did speak displayed his familiarity with the methods of excavation, and I did not object to taciturnity. It would be a pleasant change.
By mid-afternoon I had completed all my tasks save one, and had every expectation of being able to catch the evening express as I had planned.
However, tracking down Mr. Bracegirdle-Boisdragon, aka Mr. Smith, proved to be more difficult than I had expected. He had once given me a private telephone number, but when I rang it, a woman’s voice informed me in Arabic that they did not accept lady customers. Not being entirely certain what to make of that, I did not pursue the matter. My next step was to go through the Ministry of Public Works, which was Bracegirdle-Boisdragon’s cover position. It took some time to work my way through the bureaucratic muddle, and when I was finally connected with his assistant the hour was late and I had become exasperated.
“Inform him that Mrs. Emerson will be at the Turf Club at five o’clock, and that if he does not meet me he will deeply regret it.”
I have always found that unspecific threats are the most effective; the victim’s imagination supplies consequences more terrifying than any I could carry out. I was also fairly certain, from the assistant’s occasional silences, that Bracegirdle-Boisdragon was in the office. However, he had not the courage to speak directly to me.
“Not the Turf Club, Mrs. Emerson.” The young man sounded as if he were quoting. “They have not yet recovered from your last visit. Take tea at Groppi’s at five.”
I was ready for a refreshing cup of tea and one of Groppi’s excellent pastries. The ambience was certainly more pleasant than the aggressive masculinity of the Turf Club; lamps with crimson shades cast a soft glow, and footsteps were muted by Persian rugs. Scarcely had I seated myself when a low voice greeted me by name. I looked up to see, not Smith’s long nose and pointed chin, but the countenance of a younger man, with a forehead so high his features appeared to have been squeezed into the lower half of his face and miniaturized: a softly rounded chin, a button of a nose, and a mouth as sweetly curved as that of a pretty girl.
“Mrs. Emerson, is it not? My name is Wetherby. We spoke earlier today. May I join you?”
“By all means,” I said. “And then you may explain why your superior sent you instead of coming himself.”
Mr. Wetherby edged himself into a chair. “He thought it better that he not be seen tête-à-tête with you at the present time. I am completely in his confidence, ma’am, and will report directly to him.”
“Hmmm,” I said. “Very well. I must catch the evening express, so just listen and don’t interrupt.”
My description of Emerson and Ramses’s encounter with the arsonists caused him to purse his lips. “Why were we not informed of this earlier?”
“I asked you to refrain from interrupting me. Why did your employer not respond more informatively to Emerson’s telegram?”
“His reply was the simple truth, Mrs. Emerson. We have no idea where the individual in question may be, and we are as anxious as you to locate him.”
“So you agree that the attackers were searching for—er—that individual?”
“It seems likely,” Wetherby said cautiously. Lowering his voice and glancing over his shoulder, he went on. “It has been almost six weeks since his last report.”
“And he was at that time where?”
It goes against the grain for anyone in the secret service to give up any information whatever. Reluctantly he murmured, “Syria.”
