The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [171]
“You have it.”
“It would be foolhardy in the extreme to … Oh.”
Emerson leaned forward and David drew his chair closer. We must have looked like a band of conspirators, heads together, hissing at one another.
“What made you change your mind?” I demanded, nose to nose with Ramses. “For I do not suppose it was concern for your mother’s feelings that moved you.”
“Simple logic,” said Ramses, refusing to take the bait. “We were under surveillance last night. It took me longer than it ought to realize that, and then we had something of a problem eluding the lads. How they became suspicious of us I don’t know.”
“Finding you dangling from a rope outside the window?” Emerson suggested sarcastically.
“That is one possibility. The point is that we can’t use those personae again, and working our way into the organization from another direction would take a long time. Since we now know that the man we were after is also the forger, we may be able to employ other methods.”
“He’s been a busy little rascal,” said Emerson in his normal tones. I immediately shushed him. He swore—softly—and leaned closer. “Dealing drugs, manufacturing forgeries, and excavating ancient sites. Not to mention committing a murder and arranging accidents for us. We still are not certain of the motive behind those.”
“They must be designed to keep us away from the site,” David murmured. “The attack on Ramses today cannot be the result of our investigation of the drug business. There’s no way they could know who we really are.”
“An informant in the police?” I asked.
Ramses shook his head. “Russell is the only one who knows our identities. He’s too good a policeman to let that information slip. The attack today resembled the earlier accidents, and that suggests the motive is the one Mr. Vandergelt proposed.”
“Yes, but what the—” Emerson caught himself. “Damn and blast!”
“Quite,” said Ramses. “It’s the very devil, isn’t it, having to whisper and conspire? I think our friend is becoming a bit rattled, though. We’ve been pressing him from several different directions and we must continue to do so. Do you want me back at work tomorrow, Father? Under the circumstances I believe we should concentrate our forces.”
“Mr. Reisner isn’t going to like that,” I remarked. “Especially if Geoffrey remains with us, as he has declared his intention of doing.”
“Then he will have to lump it,” said Emerson.
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
The retreating footsteps must have been as light as a child’s; it was the soft click of the closing latch that woke Ramses, and his sleep-fogged brain was slow to respond. It took him several seconds to realize that he was lying on the couch in his father’s study. A drowsy smile curved his lips as he remembered. Emerson had ordered the others off to the dig and ordered him to rest. He must have slept heavily for hours. The light was that of late afternoon.
Rising, he stretched and yawned and went out. He found Sennia in the courtyard, with Basima in close attendance; the child was trotting back and forth from the fountain with a little pail with which she was watering the flowers, and the floor, and Horus. When she saw Ramses she dropped the pail and ran to him, squealing with pleasure.
“She is very wet,” Basima warned him.
“So I see. It’s all right, Basima,” he added, laughing, as a pair of wet arms went round his neck and a dripping body soaked his shirt. “I need to change my clothing, anyhow.”
“Not until you have eaten,” said Fatima, appearing in the archway. “The Father of Curses said you were working and not to disturb you, but it is not good to go so long without food. I will bring soup and cold lamb and lettuces and bread and—”
“No, don’t bother. We’ll have an early tea, Sennia and I. Would you like that, little bird?”
“Jam,” said Sennia.
She was picking up English rapidly, though her speech was still a bewildering mixture of both languages.