The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [175]
“Or a cache,” Emerson amended. “Let us suppose our friend found it last year and determined to keep the treasure for himself. How was he to dispose of it without arousing suspicion? By making the genuine artifacts appear to be part of a larger collection with a believable provenance.”
“Brilliant, Emerson! And he cannot have cleared the entire burial or he wouldn’t be trying to drive us away from the site. Some of the funerary goods must still be there!”
“It appears that that may be the case,” said Emerson. “He would have believed there was no urgency about removing the objects last season; the site is part of Reisner’s concession, and he had no intention of returning to it. No one could have anticipated he would offer it to me.”
“And he—the forger—would not have found that out until recently. Reisner would have no reason to mention it to anyone except M. Maspero, and your habit of keeping your plans a secret until the last moment—”
“It must have come as a considerable shock to the bastard,” Emerson agreed. “My heart bleeds for
him.”
The appearance of Fatima, openmouthed with surprise at seeing us, put an end to the conversation. I put an end to her apologies and apologized to her for the mess.
There was just enough light in the courtyard to allow us to see the shapeless outlines of furniture and fountain. The sky above was a pale shade, almost without color as yet, but I knew it would be a fine day. I took my parasol, however. Rain is not the only thing against which it is a protection.
“Shall we leave a message for the others?” I asked, as the sleepy doorman unbarred the portal.
“We will be back before they miss us,” said Emerson. “It won’t take long.”
He was not correct in that assumption. When we reached Jack Reynolds’s house we found the bird had flown.
One of them, at any rate. After ascertaining that Jack was not in the house, and that none of the servants admitted knowledge of his present whereabouts, Emerson burst into the guest chamber where Karl von Bork lay and shook him awake. The brusque awakening and the sight of Emerson’s engorged countenance only a few inches away would have reduced a man with less on his conscience than Karl to incoherence. I had quite a time calming him enough to get a statement out of him, and it was not much use. He had stumbled off to bed after we took our departure, leaving Jack in the study. He had not seen him since. He had heard nothing, seen nothing, knew nothing—except that he was the lowest of worms, the most contemptible creature on the face of the earth, undeserving of our friendship and Mary’s love.
This was true, but not of much help, so I left him wringing his hands and crying. Emerson had returned to Jack’s study. When I joined him there, he had opened the gun case.
“One of the rifles is missing,” he announced. Icy calm had replaced his fury and he went about his business with the terrifying efficiency that makes Emerson so formidable. Returning to the guest chamber, he searched that room and the shrinking form of Karl von Bork without finding any sign of a weapon. We then hastened to the stable, where we found, as we had expected, that Jack’s horse was gone. The stableman was not to be seen; in fact, most of the servants, aroused by Emerson’s initial shouts, had fled.
Emerson’s penultimate act was to strip the gun case of all it contained. Pistols in his belt, the other weapons under his arm, he delayed only long enough to speak a final word to Karl.
“Go to work and say nothing to Junker or anyone else,” he instructed. “If you are innocent we may be able to get you out of this yet. Guilty or innocent, running away would be the worst mistake you could make.”
We hastened back to the house. The doorman’s greeting brought everyone rushing out of the breakfast room, including Lia and David, who had just arrived. Emerson apprised them of the situation in a few brief sentences.
“So finish your breakfasts,