Lion in the Valley - Elizabeth Peters [88]
“Bribe him?” I inquired delicately.
A deep flush stained the girl’s rounded cheeks. “He has never given the slightest indication that an offer of the sort to which you refer would influence him.”
“I see. Well, men are strange creatures, Enid; it requires experience like mine, which extends over many nations and two separate continents, to understand their foibles. Did it ever occur to you that Ronald might have taken steps to prevent you from finding Donald?”
“Such a suspicion did enter my mind,” Enid murmured. “I even wondered whether Kalenischeff might not have been sent to lead me astray. But I cannot believe that, even of Ronald. . . .”
“Believe it,” I said firmly. “Kalenischeff was up to something; he told me he intended to leave Egypt, and he would never abandon a lucrative scheme until he had collected every possible penny first. He meant to betray someone, I am certain of that. The only question is—who? Well, my dear, you have raised several interesting and suggestive issues, which I must mull over. Now we had better join the others. I believe I hear Emerson calling me.”
There was no doubt about it, in fact. Emerson’s voice, as I have had occasion to remark, is notable for its carrying quality.
Ramses was the first to greet us. He asked whether I had found anything interesting inside the pyramid.
I changed the subject.
We had almost finished our repast when the sound of voices from afar warned us that another party of tourists was approaching. The absurd little caravan came trotting toward us, and after one look at the formidable figure leading the procession, Emerson dived headlong into the trench that had been dug. After the episode with the empress, he was wary of old ladies.
I sent the others back to work and advanced to meet the intruders, hoping I could head them off and spare my poor Emerson. The rider on the lead donkey looked familiar, and I realized that it was indeed the elderly American lady I had seen at Shepheard’s. Her voluminous black skirts practically swallowed up the little donkey. Nevertheless, he proceeded at a brisk trot, which caused the old lady to roll perilously from side to side. Two donkey boys took turns shoving her back into the saddle.
Seeing me, she changed course. “I know you,” she said, in a piercing nasal voice. “Saw you at the hotel. Friend of Baehler’s? Most improper, a lady dining alone.”
“I was not dining, I was lunching,” I reminded her, and then introduced myself.
“Huh,” said the old lady. “And who’s that, then?”
She pointed with her parasol. I turned. “Allow me to present my son,” I said. “Ramses, go back—”
“Ramses?” The old lady trumpeted. “What kind of name is that? Sickly-looking child. Not long for this world.”
“Thank you for your concern, madam,” I said with frigid courtesy. “I assure you it is unwarranted. Ramses, will you please—”
The old lady distracted me by dismounting. Indeed, the process would have seriously alarmed someone of a nervous temperament, accompanied as it was by infuriated screams and wild waving of her parasol. I thought she was going to topple over onto one of the small donkey boys and mash him flat. However, the action was eventually completed and the old lady, straightening her skirts and her black veil, addressed me again.
“Show me the pyramid, ma’am. I came a long way to see it, and see it I will. Mrs. Axhammer of Des Moines, Iowa, don’t do things by halves. I’ve got a list. . . .” She plucked it from her pocket and waved it like a flag. “And I’m not going home till I’ve seen everything that’s writ down here.”
“What about your companions?” I asked. Both had dismounted. The pale young man leaned weakly against his donkey, mopping his brow. The woman had collapsed onto the ground, her face as green as the palms in the background.
Mrs. Axhammer of Des Moines, Iowa (wherever that barbaric location may be), emitted the evillest laugh I had ever heard. “Let