The Deeds of the Disturber - Elizabeth Peters [114]
Faced with a journalist’s greatest dilemma – several things happening at once – Kevin was at first uncertain whether to go in pursuit of the masqueraders, as most of his colleagues had done, or to interview Emerson. I would like to think that kindness as well as journalistic instinct guided his decision. He assisted Emerson to sit up, despite my protests; for my medical training warned against such a precipitate move.
‘You have a head injury, Emerson,’ I exclaimed, pushing against his chest. ‘Remain prostrate until I can ascertain –’
Emerson’s vigorous response reassured me. ‘Hands off, Peabody! Simply because a lot of poor ignorant Egyptians, who have no other medical assistance available, allow you to experiment on them – Oh, curse it! Ramses! Where is Ramses?’
‘Here, Papa.’ Ramses was understandably short of breath, but otherwise unharmed save for a few scrapes and bruises. He crawled to Emerson’s side. ‘I am unable to express in mere words my overpowering sensation of relief at hearing you –’
‘Thank you, my son.’ Emerson pushed away the dainty handkerchief with which I was endeavouring to staunch the stream of blood that encrimsoned his broad brow. ‘Peabody, if you don’t stop that –’
‘Here, Professor.’ Kevin proffered a huge white kerchief. Emerson bound it around his brow and rose to his feet.
One of the detectives approached him. ‘Excuse me, Professor –’
Emerson fixed him with a furious glare. ‘Confound it, Orlick, how could you allow this to happen? I don’t suppose you laid hands on him – them – any one of them?’
The big man shuffled his feet and looked sheepish. ‘No, sir. Sorry, sir. But you told us to look out for one man. There was only three of us, and the odds was two to one, sir, and then such a hullaballoo broke out . . .’
‘Well, at least keep the cursed reporters away from me,’ Emerson exclaimed, swatting wildly at an undersized man in a brown wide-awake who was plucking at his elbow and bleating, ‘Professor, what were your sensations when you beheld . . .’
‘Yes, sir.’ The officer removed the reporter. Emerson turned his fiery gaze upon Kevin O’Connell.
‘I’ll just be taking myself off, then,’ said the latter quickly. ‘No need to call the police –’
‘You mistake me,’ Emerson said. ‘I was about to thank you. By Gad, young man, I do thank you! You sacrificed your chance of a story in order to protect Mrs Emerson. I won’t forget it, Mr O’Connell. I am in your debt.’
‘And I,’ added Ramses. ‘Shake hands, Mr O’Connell, and remember that if I am ever in a position to be of use to you, you may count on me.’
Kevin struggled to suppress a smile as he looked down at the small but dignified form of Ramses, and took the hand the latter had extended. I would have warned him not to do so if I had been given a chance, but Kevin didn’t seem to mind, though his fingers stuck to those of Ramses and were only detached with some difficulty. (I have no idea what the substance was; Ramses was frequently covered, in part or in whole, with something sticky.)
‘You haven’t lost by your gallantry,’ Emerson went on. ‘I doubt that any of your colleagues succeeded in catching up with the masqueraders.’
‘Begorra, but it does smack of black magic,’ Kevin muttered, wiping his hand on his trousers. ‘All of them, vanished into thin air?’
‘The trick is not so difficult,’ Emerson replied. ‘We kept overlooking the fact that the masks are flimsy affairs made of paste and paper. Hardened into a shell, they appear solid enough, but a blow with fist or foot would reduce them to scraps. It would take only a few seconds to remove the all-concealing robe, crush the mask underfoot, and mingle with the crowd.’
‘You were closer to them than anyone else,’ Kevin said. ‘And you are a keen observer. You saw nothing that would help to identify one of them?’
‘I was otherwise occupied at the time,’ said Emerson caustically. ‘And it appears I failed to protect the mummy.’
Turning, he surveyed the wreckage on the stage.
Madame Tussaud’s had no exhibit more