Elizabeth Peters - The Golden One

Aslimi was not happy to see me. He informed me that he was about to close. I informed him that I had no objection, entered the shop, and took a chair.

Aslimi waddled about, closing and locking the shutters, before he seated himself in a huge armchair of Empire style, its arms and legs ornately gilded, and stared hopelessly at me. “I told you all I know, Sitt. What do you want now?”

“Are you expecting someone, Aslimi?”

“No, Sitt, I swear.”

“I am. He will be here soon, I expect.”

We sat in silence. The sweat began to pour down Aslimi’s face. It shone like polished amber. I was about to offer him my handkerchief when there was a soft sound from behind the closed door at the back of the shop.

Aslimi kept his most valuable antiquities in the back room, which opened onto a narrow slit of a passage next to the shop. His eyes opened so wide I could see the whites all round the dark pupils. For an instant cowardice struggled with greed. Greed won out; with a grunt he heaved himself to his feet. By the time he accomplished this feat, I had burst through the door, parasol in hand.

Facing me was the intruder. There was enough light from the open door behind me to show his tall, heavyset form and his black beard and mustache. It was the man Aslimi had described that afternoon! The seller of stolen antiquities had returned! Aslimi screamed and thudded to the floor in a dead faint. I twisted the handle of my parasol, releasing the sword blade concealed therein.

“Stop where you are!” I exclaimed in Arabic.

With a sudden sweep of his arm, the man knocked the blade aside and seized me in a bruising grip.

“How many times have I told you not to attack an opponent with that damned parasol?” Emerson demanded.

“I did not attack you. You attacked me!”

Emerson handed me into the cab and got in beside me. He was still wearing the beard and clothing he had borrowed from Ramses’s collection of disguises.

“It was self-defense, Peabody. I can never predict what you are likely to do when you are in one of your combative moods. You didn’t recognize me, did you?”

“I certainly would not have gone on the attack without provocation,” I retorted.

“Come, Peabody, be a sport. Admit you didn’t know me.”

“I knew you the moment you took hold of me.”

“I should hope so!” He put his arm round me, which I permitted; but when his face approached mine I turned my head.

“That is a very prickly beard, Emerson.”

“Well, curse it, I can’t just peel it off; this adhesive won’t come loose unless it is soaked in water.” Emerson was still in a high good humor and rather inclined, in my opinion, to rub it in. “I told you Aslimi had lied to you.”

“Was that why you went disguised as the man he had described?”

“No, I did that because I wanted to,” said Emerson, chuckling. “The description I finally pried out of him was the exact opposite of the one he gave you: medium height, slim, young.”

“But unknown to Aslimi.”

“It doesn’t fit any of the thieves or go-betweens known to me either. We must accept it, however.”

The beard assumed a particularly arrogant angle. I was forced to agree with him. After I had restored Aslimi from his faint, he could not quite get it straight in his head who the intruder was: a thief bent on robbing and murdering him; or the Father of Curses, bent on something equally unpleasant; or both in the same body. He was certainly too confused and terrified to lie.

We reached the hotel without anything of interest happening, to find that the children had not yet returned from dinner. Emerson had removed the turban and caftan, but the beard and mustache occasioned a certain hesitation in the desk clerk; had it been anyone but me asking for the key, he might have questioned the identity of the fellow I was taking with me to my suite.

“He didn’t recognize me either,” Emerson declared smugly.

“Ha,” I said.

Emerson was sitting with his chin and mouth in a basin of water, breathing through his nose, and I was enjoying a restorative whiskey and soda when there was a tap on the door. I responded, and Nefret put her head in. “We only stopped by to say…” she began; catching sight of Emerson, she flung the door wide and hurried to his side. “Father! Are you hurt?”

“No,” said Emerson, gurgling. He spat out a mouthful of water.

Ramses’s face twitched in a frantic attempt to control his amusement. “It’s the beard,” he got out.

“I think that’s done the job,” Emerson said. He peeled the thing off and gave Nefret a cheerful smile.

“Hold it over the basin, Emerson,” I said, as water streamed from the bedraggled object onto the carpet.

“What? Oh.” Chagrin wrinkled his brow, and he attempted to wring the water out of the beard. “Hope I haven’t spoiled it, my boy. I would have asked you for the loan of it, but you see, the idea came to me after you left, and I had to act at once.”

“That’s quite all right, sir,” said Ramses. “Might one ask…”

“Certainly, certainly. I will tell you all about it. Make yourselves comfortable.”

It was evident that he planned to revel in every detail, so the children followed his suggestion, settling themselves on the sofa side by side and listening with interest. Neither of them interrupted until Emerson, with great gusto, told of my pulling out the sword.

“Good God, Mother!” Ramses exclaimed. “How many times have I told you -”

“She didn’t know me, you see,” Emerson said, beaming. “She won’t admit it, but she didn’t.”

“I did not recognize you immediately,” I admitted. “But the room was dark and Aslimi was shrieking in alarm, and I didn’t expect you would come that way. Nefret, my dear, are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry. I was picturing the two of you scuffling in Aslimi’s back room. Neither of you was hurt?”

“No,” I said, while Emerson grinned in a particularly annoying fashion. “It may take Aslimi a while to recover, though.”

“He admitted that his original description was false in every particular,” Emerson said smugly. “The seller was bearded, of course – most Egyptians are – but he was young, slender, and of medium height.”

Ramses could not come up with a name to match the new description either. “Someone new to the business,” he said thoughtfully.

“Someone who has been in Luxor recently,” Emerson added. “Assuming, that is, that the artifacts did come from the tomb of the princesses. He must have got them direct from one of the robbers, who had withheld them from the rest of the loot. Those scoundrels cheat even one another.”

“I suppose you are now even more on fire to go on to Luxor and track down the thieves,” Nefret said, tucking her feet under her and leaning against Ramses.

“You would like a few more days at the hospital, wouldn’t you?” Emerson asked.

“Well, yes; but I wouldn’t want you to change your plans on my account.”

I must give my dear Emerson credit; he was too forthright to pretend he was doing it on her account. “The tomb has already been robbed and the loot dispersed,” he explained. “And I expect everyone knows the identity of the thieves – the Abd er Rassuls, or one of the other Gurneh families who specialize in such activities. It is strange, though, to have some of the objects turn up in Cairo. The local boys usually work with Mohassib or another of the Luxor dealers. Ramses, are you certain that ointment vessel is Eighteenth Dynasty?”

“No, of course not,” Ramses said, somewhat defensively. “I’m not an expert on hard stone vessels. The same forms and materials were used over a long period of time. If you think it’s important, we might pay a visit to the Museum and see what examples they have.”