The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [159]
The speech that had begun in anger ended in appeal. That Ramses felt its effect I did not doubt; he bowed his head and murmured, “Yes, sir, I know. I apologize.”
“Well, never mind,” Emerson grunted. “This is an unpleasant state of affairs! The bastard seems determined to incriminate David one way or another. It cannot be a personal vendetta; David hasn’t an enemy in the world. Er—have you, David?”
“No, sir. I think he got the idea of using my name when he sold the forgeries simply because it gave them a believable provenance. Why not continue to use it in his other business arrangements? I doubt the fellow holds a particular grudge against me; I was a convenient scapegoat because of my nationality and my background, that’s all.”
“As simple as that?” I exclaimed.
“As simple and as deadly,” said Ramses. “We are accustomed to dealing with enemies who hate us for personal reasons. This is a motive we have never encountered and a kind of enmity we’ve never had to face. I think David is right; this bas—this man chose to victimize him not because of who he is but because of what he is—a member of an ‘inferior’ race who has, moreover, dared to demonstrate his intellectual superiority and violate the rules against intermarriage. What makes this mental aberration even more dangerous is that it is shared by those who will be David’s judges—if it should come to that.”
Emerson growled deep in his throat. “It won’t come to that.”
“I’m not worried,” David said firmly. He took the hand Lia held out to him. “No suspect ever had a more impressive array of allies.”
“Quite right,” I said. “We’ll find the bas—the villain, never fear.”
“Well spoken, Mother,” Ramses said. “Now that we’ve settled that—”
“One more thing.” Emerson turned to David. “Have you heard from any of the European dealers to whom you wrote?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. I had asked for a description of the artifacts in question, if you recall. I got a letter today from Monsieur Dubois in Paris. He was somewhat perturbed.”
“I can well imagine,” Emerson grunted. “I presume he insists that the article was genuine.”
“Exactly. As he pointed out, the seller and the provenance may have been spurious, but that doesn’t prove the artifact was. He sent a photograph.”
“Oh? What was it?”
“You’d better see for yourself, sir. I had intended to show it to you tomorrow, but so long as you are here …”
David got to his feet. Emerson followed suit. “We’ll go down to the saloon where the light is better. It’s time we were getting along home, anyhow.”
The saloon was not nearly so cluttered as it had been in my day, possibly because there was only one male person cluttering it up. The removal of all but two of the desks had actually left room for a dining table. Lia had replaced several of the rugs. When she saw me looking at them she said nervously, “I do hope you don’t mind, Aunt Amelia. Some had rather large holes in them.”
“From Emerson’s pipe.” I nodded. “My dear child, this is your home now. Make any changes you like.”
David had found the photograph. Emerson snatched it up with a muffled expletive. “Let me see,” I said, and tugged at his hand.
At first I could not make out what the objects were. There were four of them, their size indeterminable because no scale had been provided. Then Emerson said, “Carved animal legs—bulls’ legs. Ivory?”
“So M. Dubois said. It’s a little difficult to make out from the photograph.”
“Inlaid,” Emerson muttered, his finger tracing the outline of the oval base. “Curse it, this cannot be—”
“Gold and lapis lazuli. Have you ever seen anything like them?”
“Yes,” said Emerson in an abstracted voice. “Oh, yes. May I take this along?”
“Certainly, sir.”
Emerson straightened, the photograph in his hand. His eyes met those of Ramses. “Go on about your business, then,” he said gruffly. “If you aren’t here tomorrow morning I will just run into Cairo and ask a few questions of … whom?”
Ramses mentioned a name,