The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [89]
“What are you doing here?” I demanded somewhat breathlessly.
“I might echo that question,” replied Emerson, in the same style. “But why ask? I know you are ubiquitous. I don’t mind that, it is your impetuosity that distresses me. I believe you have broken my leg.”
“Nonsense,” I said, retrieving my parasol. “If you would condescend to inform me of your plans, these tiring encounters might be avoided, to our mutual benefit. Who is with you?”
“Allow me to present Ali Hassan Abd er Rasul,” said Emerson. He finished the introduction in Arabic, referring to me as his learned and high-born chief wife—which would have been very flattering if his tone had not been so sarcastic. Ali Hassan, whom I now saw huddled in the corner, rolled his eyes till the whites showed, and made an extremely insulting remark.
“Son of a one-eyed camel and offspring of a deceased goat,” I said (or words to that effect; the original Arabic is far too emphatic for decent English), “keep your infected tongue from comments about your betters.”
Emerson amplified this statement at some length, and Ali Hassan cowered. “I had forgotten that the honored Sitt has our language,” he remarked. “Give me my reward and I will go.”
“Reward!” I exclaimed. “Emerson, do you mean—”
“Yes, my honored chief wife, I do,” Emerson replied. “Ali Hassan sent a message by one of the servants to meet him here. Why he won’t come to the house I do not know and frankly I do not care; but he claims he has found Armadale. Of course I have no intention of paying him until I am sure.”
“Where is Armadale?”
“In a cave in the hills.”
I waited for him to go on, but he said no more; and as the silence lengthened, a shiver of comprehension ran through me.
“He is dead.”
“Yes. And,” Emerson said gravely, “according to Ali Hassan, he has been dead for quite some time.”
CHAPTER
Twelve
THE declining sun thrust a long red-gold arm through the open doorway, lighting the shadowy corner where Ali Hassan crouched. I saw that Emerson was watching me quizzically.
“Throws your theories off a bit, doesn’t it?” he inquired.
“I can hardly say at present,” I replied. “’Quite a long time’ is a rather indefinite term. But if it should prove that after all Armadale was already dead when the latest attack took place… No, that would really not surprise me; the alternative theory I had formulated—”
“Curse it, Amelia, have you the infernal gall to pretend…” Emerson cut the comment short. After a few moments of heavy breathing he bared his teeth at me. The expression was evidently meant to be a smile, for when he continued his voice was sickeningly sweet. “I will say no more; I don’t want Ali Hassan to think we are at odds with one another.”
“These Arabs do not understand Western means of expressing affection,” I agreed, somewhat absently. “Emerson, we must act at once. We face a dilemma of considerable proportions.”
“True. Armadale’s body must be brought back here. And someone must go to the tomb. It has never been more vulnerable than at this moment.”
“Obviously we must divide forces. Shall I go after Armadale or guard the tomb?”
“Armadale,” was the prompt reply. “Though I don’t like to ask you, Peabody.”
“You are giving me the less dangerous task,” I said, much moved by the expression on Emerson’s face as he looked at me. But there was no time for sentiment. With every passing moment the sun sank lower in the west.
Ali Hassan grunted and got to his feet. “I go now. You give me—”
“Not until you have taken us to the body of Armadale,” Emerson answered. “The Sitt will go with you.”
An avaricious gleam brightened Ali Hassan’s eyes. He began to whine about his advanced age and state of exhaustion. After some bargaining he accepted Emerson’s offer of an additional fifty piasters to lead me to the cave. “And,” Emerson added, in a soft, menacing growl, “you answer for the Sitt’s safety with your life, Ali Hassan. Should she suffer so much as a scratch, should a single