The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [174]
A sharp catch of breath from David interrupted him. He shrugged. “Feel free to tell me if I’ve overlooked something. God knows I’d like to think so.”
“It’s all circumstantial,” David muttered.
“I know. Give me another day before we break this latest bit of news. I’ll stay here at the house tonight and keep an eye on him. He may do something—or refrain from doing something—that will settle the business.”
What they learned from his parents at dinner that evening could be regarded as another nail in Reynolds’s coffin. To Ramses it was a point in his favor. The top men in the drug business seldom used the stuff themselves. They had better sense.
So he spent the early hours of the night in the garden watching a particular window. It had been dark for quite a long time before a form emerged and crept through the shadows in the direction Ramses had expected. There was no objection from Narmer; Ramses had ordered the dog to be shut up at night when he began working for Russell.
Slowly Ramses approached the window of the room that had once been his. He didn’t suppose she would be there, but he made certain there was no sound of movement or breathing within before he climbed over the sill. It did not take long to find what he was looking for. He removed the bullets before he put the weapon back under the mattress.
Up to that point he had managed to think of nothing except the job at hand, but as he straightened, a series of remembered images flashed across his mind, so vividly and painfully that he closed his eyes, as if that could shut them out. How in God’s name was he going to tell her?
As a rule I rise before Emerson, who is a heavy sleeper and not at his best in the morning. Conceive of my surprise, therefore, to open my eyes and behold a small circle of glowing red and a statuesque form silhouetted against the starlit window. It was Emerson—not only awake, but dressed and smoking his pipe.
I sat up with a start and a cry. “What has happened?”
“Nothing as yet,” was the calm reply. “A number of things are about to happen, however. I must see Reynolds and von Bork, and pay a courtesy call on Reisner, before we begin work. Do you want to come with me?”
“Certainly.”
“I felt sure you would say that. Do you need any help with your buttons?”
“No, thank you. I can probably dress more quickly without your assistance.”
Emerson chuckled. “Fatima won’t be up yet. I will go to the kitchen and make coffee for you, my dear.”
If I had needed any encouragement to assume my attire without delay, that magnanimous offer would have done it. Emerson’s intentions are of the best, but it would probably take Fatima an hour to clean up after him if he did not actually set the stove on fire.
Sure enough, I found him swearing and nursing a scalded hand. He had smashed a cup and overturned the coffeepot. There was a dead mouse in the middle of the table—one of Horus’s offerings, I presumed.
I made the coffee and swept up the fragments of the broken cup while Emerson disposed of the mouse. “Looks like a fine day,” he remarked, joining me at the table.
“For what?” I demanded somewhat waspishly. (I had cut my finger on a bit of broken cup.)
“Among other things,” said Emerson, “for excavating. One part of the plot is clear to me now. I know what is behind the forger’s activities, and what it is we are not meant to find at Zawaiet.”
“I suppose you aren’t going to tell me.”
“I will give you a hint. Two of the objects the forger sold were unusual—the little ivory statue and the legs of the couch. Both are early dynastic in date. By a strange coincidence, that is also the date of our pyramid. By another strange coincidence, someone is trying to keep us from excavating there.” He paused invitingly.
“Good Gad,” I breathed. “That is