The Curse of the Pharaohs - Elizabeth Peters [98]
Whereupon he departed, walking with slow, stately strides. When I saw him open the door of our room I started to expostulate; then I realized he was taking the most direct route, through our room and out the window. I only hoped he would not step on the cat or smash my toilette articles as he proceeded on his single-minded path.
“It really astonishes me that the male sex is so completely devoid of a sense of logic,” I said. “There is little danger of an attack on the tomb by daylight; Emerson might have waited until we had settled other, more pressing, matters. But, as usual, everything is left to me. Go back to Arthur’s room, my dear. I will send someone to you with breakfast shortly.”
“But,” Mary began, her eyes widening. “But how—”
“Leave that to me,” I said.
I found Mr. Vandergelt with Ahmed. The cook was squatting on the floor completely surrounded by the bundles that held his worldly possessions, including his prized cooking pots. His wrinkled face serene, he was staring pensively at the ceiling while Vandergelt waved fistfuls of American greenbacks at him.
When I left the kitchen, Ahmed was at work. I cannot claim all the credit; Ahmed’s exaggerated disinterest had betrayed the fact that the sight of the money was beginning to affect him, and the salary he eventually agreed to accept was truly princely. But I flatter myself that my passionate appeals to honor, loyalty, and friendship had their effect.
Gracefully I disclaimed the compliments Mr. Vandergelt lavished on me, and asked him to carry the good news to Lady Baskerville. Then at last I was free to strip off my work-stained garments. I was relieved to find that the water jars in the bathroom were full. Much as I would have liked to prolong my immersion in the cool water, I made as much haste as I could, for although the immediate crisis had been resolved I felt sure other problems awaited me. I was half dressed when Emerson climbed in through the window and, without so much as a glance in my direction, walked into the bathroom and slammed the door.
I knew from his face that his mission had been unsuccessful. Though I yearned to comfort him I could not linger—nor, indeed, was he in any mood to accept condolences just then.
I went first to the dining room, where a waiter was arranging a tray of steaming dishes on the sideboard, and ordered him to prepare a tray and follow me to Arthur’s room. When I entered, Mary rose from her chair with a cry of surprise.
“Have you convinced the servants to remain, then?”
“The strike is settled,” I replied wittily. “Good morning, Sister.”
The nun nodded benignly at me. Her round rosy face was as fresh as if she had had eight hours’ sleep, and I observed there was not a drop of perspiration on her brow, despite her muffling garments. While she applied herself to her well-deserved breakfast, I examined my patient.
I saw at once that Mary’s optimism was justified. The young man’s face was still sunken, his eyes tightly closed; but his pulse was distinctly stronger. “He cannot continue without nourishment, however,” I mused. “Perhaps some broth. I will have Ahmed boil a chicken. There is nothing as strengthening as chicken broth.”
“The doctor suggested brandy,” Mary said.
“The worst possible thing. Mary, go to your room and rest. If you go on this way you will fall ill yourself, and then what will I do?”
This argument halted the girl’s objections. When she had gone, with a last lingering look at the still face of her lover, I sat down beside the bed. “Sister, I must speak frankly.”
Again the nun nodded and beamed at me, but did not speak.
“Are you dumb?” I inquired sharply. “Answer, if you please.”
The good woman’s placid brow grew troubled. “Quoi?” she inquired.
“Oh, dear,” I sighed. “I suppose you speak only French. A fine help you will be if Arthur awakens and tries to tell us what happened. Ah, well, we must do the best we can.”
So, in the plainest possible terms, I explained the situation. From the startled look on the nun’s face I saw that she had