Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [108]
“Your sweeping generalizations are, as usual, unfounded; but it can’t do any harm to ask,” Emerson grunted. “Here we are, Peabody; get your traps together.”
The train pulled into the main station. Emerson opened the door of the carriage and turned with a benevolent smile to assist the old lady who had been our sole companion during the journey. She was sitting at the extreme end of the seat watching us with wide eyes, and when Emerson offered his hand she let out a scream.
“Get away!” she shrieked. “Murder—assassins—bats—leave me, monster!”
My attempts at reassurance only maddened her more, and we were forced to abandon her. She appeared, poor creature, to be rather lacking in her wits.
We went first to police headquarters, on the Place Bab el-Khalk. Major Ramsay was rude enough to keep us waiting a good ten minutes, and I daresay it would have been longer had not Emerson, with his habitual impetuosity, brushed the protesting clerk aside and flung open the door to the inner office. A brisk exchange followed, in which I did not interfere since I felt Emerson’s criticisms to be fully justified. During the discussion Emerson held a chair for me and sat down himself, so Ramsay finally resigned himself to the inevitable.
Emerson wasted no more time in compliments. “You are of course familiar, Ramsay, with the matter of the antiquities thieves Mrs. Emerson and I apprehended last season.”
“I have your file here before me,” Ramsay replied sourly, indicating a folder. “I was perusing it when you burst in; had you given me time to study it—”
“Well, the devil, man, how much time do you need to read a dozen pages?” Emerson demanded. “You ought to have known all about it anyway.”
I deemed it appropriate to calm the troubled waters with a soothing comment. “May I suggest, Emerson, that we save valuable time by avoiding reproaches? We are here, Major Ramsay, because we want you to tell us all you know about the Master Criminal.”
“Who?” Ramsay exclaimed.
“You may know him as ‘the Master,’ which is one of the names his henchmen call him. He is also known as Sethos.”
Ramsay continued to stare at me with a particularly feeble-minded expression, so I tried again. “The head of the ring of antiquities thieves. If you have indeed read the report, you know that he unfortunately eluded us.”
“Oh! Oh yes.” With maddening deliberation Ramsay turned over the pages. “Yes, it is all here. Congratulations from M. de Morgan of the Department of Antiquities, from Sir Evelyn Baring—”
“Well, then,” I said. “No doubt the police have been actively engaged in attempting to identify and locate this mastermind of crime. What progress have you made?”
“Mrs. Emerson.” Ramsay closed the file and folded his hands. “The administration and the police are grateful to you for your efforts in closing down a ring of local thieves. All this talk of master criminals with outlandish aliases is absurd.”
I put a restraining hand on Emerson’s arm. “They know of Sethos in the bazaars,” I said. “They whisper of the Master, and the dreadful revenge he takes on traitors to his revolting cause.”
Ramsay raised a hand to conceal his smile. “We pay no attention to the gossip of natives, Mrs. Emerson. They are such a superstitious, ignorant lot; why, if we followed up every idle rumor, we would have no time to do anything else.”
From Emerson’s parted lips came bubbling sounds, like those of a kettle on the boil. “Please don’t say such things, Major,” I implored. “I cannot guarantee your safety if you continue in that vein. Since we arrived in Egypt less than a week ago, we have been several times attacked by this man, whose existence you deny. There was an attempt at abducting our son, and only this morning a shot fired from ambush narrowly missed me, and actually wounded Don—er—one of our assistants.”
Ramsay was too