The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [55]
Emerson had paused in the act of putting on his second boot. Now he flung it across the room. It struck a china vessel, which fell to the floor and smashed into bits. Mingled with the crash was Emerson’s roar. I bowdlerize the comment, which concluded with a request that I spare him further examples of local superstition, a subject with which he was only too well acquainted.
As he spoke I began my ablutions. When he finally ran out of breath I said calmly, “I assure you, Emerson, that the woman’s story was replete with a wealth of detail that gave it an air of convincing verisimilitude. She saw something, there is no doubt of that. Has it not struck you that not a thousand miles from here dwells a lady who is in the habit of wearing ancient Egyptian dress?”
Emerson’s apoplectic countenance relaxed. He let out a snort of laughter. ” ‘Flit’ is hardly the word I would use to describe Madame Berengeria’s movements.”
“Nor was it the word Atiyah used. I resorted to some permissible poetic license. Help me with these buttons, Emerson, we are late.”
I fully expected that we would be even later, for the pro cess of fastening buttons has the effect of arousing Emer son’s amative instincts. On this occasion he simply did as he was asked before retrieving his boot and finishing his toilette. I confess—since I have determined to be completely candid about such matters—that I was a trifle put out.
When we reached the drawing room Lady Baskerville was pacing up and down, clearly annoyed at our tardiness, so—as is my invariable custom—I attempted to cast oil on the troubled waters.
“I hope we did not keep you waiting, Lady Baskerville. Had you paused to consider the matter, I am sure you would have realized we required time to freshen up after our arduous labors.”
My graceful apology was received with a malignant look, but when the lady turned to Emerson, she was all charm. Mr. Milverton and Karl were also present. The latter still wore his crumpled work clothes. By contrast, Mr. Cyrus Vandergelt was the picture of sartorial elegance in a white linen suit of snowy freshness. A diamond the size of a cherry sparkled in his cravat.
“Here I am again,” he remarked cheerfully, as he took my hand. “Hope you aren’t tired of seeing my weather-beaten old face, Mrs. Emerson.”
“Not at all,” I replied.
“Glad to hear it. To tell you the truth, I’ve been pestering Lady Baskerville for an invitation. Do you think you could persuade her to offer a bed to a poor homeless Yankee?”
His eyes twinkled and the creases in his cheeks deepened as they always did when he was amused; but I had the impression that there was something serious beneath his seemingly humorous suggestion.
“There is something serious beneath your seemingly humorous suggestion,” I said. “What are you driving at?”
“Amazing acumen!” Mr. Vandergelt exclaimed. “As always, Mrs. Emerson, you are one hundred percent correct. I’m downright unhappy about the way things are going. You folks haven’t spent much time in Luxor, but take my word for it, the town is humming like a beehive. Somebody broke into Madame Berengeria’s room this afternoon while she was taking her siesta, and made off with her jewelry—”
“That cannot have been a great loss,” Lady Baskerville murmured.
“Maybe not, but it scared the poor woman half to death when she woke up and found the place all topsy-turvy. I happened to be at the hotel when the servants pelted in yell Poor little Miss Mary is in for a hard time when she gets home; Madame was raving about ungrateful daughters who abandon their mothers, and so on.” Mr. Vandergelt took a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow as he relived the painful interview. “I know as well as you do that sneak thieves aren’t unusual,” he went on. “But I can’t remember any