Lord of the Silent - Elizabeth Peters [199]
But do not suppose, Reader, that the stupendous sight distracted me for more than a few seconds. I would have exchanged the statue and everything else in the small shrine for Nefret, or any one of those dear to me. When I turned away and went back through the low passage I was trying to think how we could use this to our advantage.
Kuentz was waiting, near the opening, when Daoud pulled me up. “Well?” he demanded. “Incredible, isn’t it?”
“Incredible,” I agreed. “Words fail me. Emerson, you will not believe—”
“Don’t tell him. Let him see for himself.” He sounded like an enthusiastic boy. Emerson, the greatest Egyptologist of this or any other age, dominated the field like a colossus; no youthful scholar, however villainous, could remain indifferent to his approval.
Despite his excitement Kuentz had sense enough to step back when Emerson approached. My husband’s eyes locked with mine. “Be ready,” they said. I inclined my head slightly. Obeying Kuentz’s gesture, I returned to my place beside Cyrus. Emerson needed no one’s assistance to descend. He lowered himself by his hands and disappeared from sight.
He remained below for a long time. Not a sound issued from the pit. Torn between suspicion and anticipation, Kuentz edged closer to the opening. “What are you doing, Professor?” he called.
Emerson’s untidy black head appeared. His hands resting lightly on the edge of the pit, he looked up. “It’s a fake,” he said.
Instantly I dropped to the ground, pulling Cyrus down with me. It was a sensible but unnecessary precaution; Kuentz lost his grip on the gun when Emerson’s hands closed round his ankles and pulled his feet out from under him. Selim snatched the weapon up and Emerson seated himself on Kuentz’s chest, and the reluctant Gurnawis pelted out of the place, scattering in all directions.
“Ah,” said Daoud, who had watched the performance interestedly. “Soon I can kill him, is it not so? Where is Nur Misur?”
“I expect Ramses has her safe by now,” Emerson said calmly. “Selim, find me some rope.”
I was sorry Ramses had not heard that splendid tribute. I was unable to share Emerson’s confidence, but there were a few things to tidy up before we could search for our missing children. I always carry a coil of rope on my belt, in case I find it necessary to tie up a prisoner; with this and strips of cloth torn from various articles of clothing, we bound Kuentz hand and foot, despite his struggles. While we were doing this, Cyrus edged up to the opening of the shaft.
“I can’t stand it,” he said suddenly. “You folks are going to think I’m a selfish, cold-blooded viper, and I won’t take more than a minute, but if I don’t see what’s down there I’m going to burst.”
“Go right ahead,” Emerson said amiably. “It may take us a minute or two to find out where that scum of a Syrian took Nefret. Give Vandergelt Effendi a hand, Daoud. Now then, Kuentz, what have you to say?”
Recognizing at last the futility of resistance, the Swiss lay still, breathing heavily. “It was a lie,” he gasped. “The statue is genuine. You know it. You knew it!”
“He has still some of the instincts of a scholar,” Emerson remarked to me. “If they had not been present in his mind, my little ruse would not have succeeded. Yes, it is genuine, and yes, I knew it, and yes indeed, I hoped the momentary relaxation of your guard would—”
A whoop like that of a banshee floated up the shaft. Emerson grinned. “Vandergelt has not my self-control. Perhaps we ought to leave him here to guard the statue. I wouldn’t put it past those rascals from Gurneh to sneak back after we leave. Where are we going, Kuentz?”
“You cannot make me speak,” Kuentz said sullenly.
“I wouldn’t be so sure