Children of the Storm - Elizabeth Peters [24]
“What is this?” Selim demanded. “Who is this man like a wild animal? A new enemy?”
“Nothing of the sort,” Ramses replied. Kadija came back, carrying a small pot, and Ramses submitted to having the stuff smeared over his wrist while he told Selim about the encounter. Selim’s handsome face fell. He had been with them on several of their wilder adventures, and he thoroughly enjoyed a good fight.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Selim,” Ramses said. “They are tourists, and it is most unlikely that we will encounter them again. Anyhow, the whole business was a misunderstanding. The fellow bears me no ill will.”
“Huh,” said Selim.
Before long the children had reached a stage experienced parents know well; tears and howls of juvenile rage became more frequent, and Labiba slapped Davy for pushing the baby. He slapped her back.
“Time we were going home,” Nefret said, holding the combatants apart by main force. “They’re getting tired.”
“Right.” Ramses collared his daughter, who began an indignant explanation—or perhaps it was a protest. He recognized two words. One sounded like Swahili and the other like Swedish. Neither could be said to have any particular bearing on the situation.
Daoud enveloped both squirming, grubby children in a loving embrace and handed them up to Ramses and Nefret after they had mounted their horses. “You’re disgusting,” Ramses informed his daughter. “What is that purple stuff on your face?”
She gave him a wide grin and rubbed her face against his shirt.
As usual, the women took forever to say good-bye. While they were exchanging final farewells and last-minute gossip, Selim came and stood by him.
“Will you tell the Sitt Hakim about Hassan and my father’s tomb?”
“She’ll find out sooner or later. What’s the trouble, Selim? I could see something was worrying you.”
“It is not important.” Selim tugged at his beard. “Only . . . what did Hassan do, that he should feel guilt and the need for forgiveness?”
EMERSON STORMED WHEN HE DISCOVERED I had finished his article for him. We had a refreshing little discussion, and then he set about revising my text, muttering under his breath and throwing pens at the wall. I congratulated myself on this idea, which served two useful purposes: it forced Emerson to finish the article, which he would never have done without my intervention, and it stopped him from brooding about the theft and his inability to do anything about it. Emerson is always greatly relieved by his explosions, which in my opinion are an excellent method of reducing an excess of spleen.
As I had expected, our telegrams produced no new information. Thomas Russell’s reply arrived on the Saturday. Like Emerson’s, his epistolary style was terse. No one of that description or name had been on the train. He had not wasted extra words demanding an explanation; he knew Emerson well enough to know none would be forthcoming.
Emerson crumpled the flimsy paper into a ball and tossed it to the Great Cat of Re, who sniffed it, decided it was inedible, and ignored it.
By the time we prepared to take the Sunday-evening train, there had been no response from Sethos. Emerson had telegraphed him at both his residences. At my request he showed me the telegram, and I must say he had communicated the necessary information without giving away the truth. That would have been disastrous, since the clerks at the telegraph office would have spread the news all over Luxor.
Cyrus’s initial frenzy had been replaced by a state of profound gloom. He had been torn between rushing off to Cairo in pursuit of the thief and mounting guard over the remaining artifacts. The latter consideration won out, after I explained to him that although Martinelli might well have eluded the police, we had no certain proof that he was in Cairo. The very idea that the evildoer might be lurking, waiting for an opportunity to make another raid on the treasure, made Cyrus break out into a cold sweat. He did not even come to the railroad