The Ape Who Guards the Balance - Elizabeth Peters [179]
“I’m not sure. It is up to Mr. Davis.”
“And M. Maspero.”
“Of course.” Ned added quickly, “My friend Harold Jones will be here in a few days, to make sketches and paintings.”
“I thought Mr. Davis’s friend, Mr. Smith, was doing that.”
“He was. Um . . . it’s not very pleasant down there, in the heat and dust.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Further inquiry produced the information I had hoped not to hear. Mr. Davis had indeed dismissed the photographer, who was returning to Cairo as soon as he finished developing the last of his plates. As all my Readers are surely aware (if they are not, they have failed to pay attention to my remarks about excavation techniques) this meant there would be no photographic record of the clearance of the burial chamber, or the mummy itself. Mr. Davis, I was informed, had no intention of hiring another photographer.
The individual who informed me of this was Mr. Weigall. I intercepted him that afternoon as he was leaving the Valley, and since I had him backed up against the cliff face he could not get away from me without knocking me down. I pointed out, in my most tactful manner, that as the representative of the Antiquities Department he could insist on this basic requirement. He obviously had no intention of doing so, or of invoking the authority of M. Maspero. When I offered the services of David and Nefret, Weigall bit his lip and looked shifty and said he would tell Mr. Davis of my generous offer.
The last resort was to plead with Maspero himself. Though I had no great hopes of succeeding, I decided I must try. After we had returned to the house I was about to dispatch a note inviting myself to tea with him and Madame—for the situation was desperate enough, I believed, to justify this bit of bad manners—when Fatima handed me a message that changed my intentions. It had arrived that afternoon, and it came from a suprising source—Mr. Paul, the photographer.
The message was even more surprising. Mr. Paul regretted not having had the opportunity to be introduced to me, for of course he knew me by reputation. He had news of vital importance that could be told only to me. He was leaving on the evening train to Cairo; would I meet him at the station, for a brief conversation that would, he felt certain, prove of considerable interest to me?
I am sure I need not repeat the thoughts that passed through my mind. The astute Reader will anticipate them. My decision should be equally easy to anticipate. How could I not go? There was no danger, for the platform would be crowded with tourists and locals waiting for the train. My original notion, of calling on M. Maspero, would serve as an excuse for my absence.
I did take the precaution of assuming my working costume, complete with my belt of tools and my stoutest parasol, instead of the nice frock I had planned to wear. Emerson, the only person I informed of my presumed intention, made no objection; the only condition he exacted was that I allow one of our men to accompany me.
With Hassan trailing me at a respectful distance, I reached the railroad station approximately fifteen minutes before the train was due to leave. The platform was a melee of bodies, loud voices, pushing and shoving. I took up a position near one of the walls of the station, parasol firmly clasped, eyes moving alertly over the crowd.
I had never seen Mr. Paul face-to-face, but when he emerged into sight I knew him instantly. He was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and a rather vulgar striped flannel suit. Strands of gray hair had been stuck to his balding head. His shoulders were bowed, his walk slow and stiff, like that of a man suffering from rheumatics.
As he came toward me his stride lengthened, his bent form straightened, his head lifted. It was like the transformations in the fairy tales, when the wand of a magician turns a bent old man into a prince. I sucked in my breath.
“Don’t cry out, I beg,” said Sethos. “For if you attempted to do so I would be forced to silence you in a manner that would please me a great deal but to which you would feel