The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [26]
It would not have occurred to Ramses that he might want assistance. He went down alone to investigate.
The sounds that followed his discovery of the burglars would have wakened the dead. Even Emerson, who is a heavy sleeper, and who had good reason to be weary that night, shot out of bed. He immediately fell over a chair, so I got to the door before him, but I heard his breathless curses close behind me as I ran along the hall. There was no time to lose, no time even to assume a dressing gown; the sound that had waked me was the explosion of a firearm.
I might not have known precisely where the action was taking place had I not seen a white form ahead of me. Ghostly and palely glimmering, it fled along the dimly lighted hall until it reached the top of the stairs, and then … For one extremely disconcerting moment I thought it had taken flight. A solid thump and a loud “Damn!” assured me the form was human—Nefret’s form, to be precise—and that she had slid down the banister in order to save a few precious seconds. Picking herself up at once, she dashed along the corridor that led to the library.
My descent was of necessity less precipitous. Emerson, who can cover the ground quite rapidly once he is fully awake, ran smack into me at the bottom of the steps. Catching me to him as I tottered, he looked wildly around and bellowed, “Where the devil …?”
There could be no doubt of the answer; sounds of struggle and the destruction of furniture issued from the direction of the library, and the lights in that chamber shone out into the corridor. Emerson said a very bad word and went on, pulling me with him.
A scene of disaster met our eyes. Rain blew in through the shattered windows, and broken glass littered the floor. Chairs had been overturned and books toppled from the shelves. A motionless body lay facedown by the desk; several drawers stood open, and their contents had been strewn across the carpet. Also on the carpet were two men, rolling back and forth as they struggled. One of them was a heavyset individual wearing rough, dark clothing; his right hand gripped a pistol, and his right wrist was gripped by his adversary, who was, as the Reader must have anticipated, my son, attired only in the loose cotton trousers he preferred to a nightshirt. Light as a windblown leaf, Nefret danced round them, her knife raised, waiting for an opportunity to strike. She jumped aside, swearing, as the burglar flung Ramses over onto his back—and onto the broken glass. His hand did not lose its grip, but the expletive that burst from his lips proved him a worthy son of his father.
“Stand out of the way, Nefret,” said Emerson. Seizing the burglar by the collar of his coat, he lifted him up into the air and removed the pistol from his nerveless grasp. Ramses got slowly to his feet, streaming blood and gasping for breath. When he got it back, his first words were directed at Nefret.
“Damnation! Why didn’t you go after him?”
Emerson looked from the motionless body on the floor to the squirming body he held at arm’s length. “Was there another one?” he inquired.
“Yes,” Nefret said, through her pretty white teeth. “I didn’t go after him because I thought possibly Ramses might need assistance with the other two. Silly little me! Do forgive me!”
“But he got the scarab, damn it!”
“Are you certain?” I asked, as Emerson shook the burglar in an absentminded sort of way and Nefret glared at her brother.
“Yes,” Ramses said. “When I switched on the lights, that fellow actually had it in his hand. I went for him, and he tossed it to the third man, who rather lost his head, I think,