The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [29]
“So how many have we identified?” I inquired.
Ramses extracted a dog-eared list from his pocket. “Seven, including the original scarab. Unfortunately we were only able to purchase three of the remaining six—two scarabs with royal cartouches and a small statue of the god Ptah. The others had already been sold. I’ve gone over all three and there is no obvious flaw in any of them. When we get to Cairo I will try a few chemical tests.”
“If we still have them when we get to Cairo,” muttered Emerson, who was inclined to take burglaries of his home personally.
“Nonsense, Emerson,” I said. “There is no way the forger can trace these objects to us. No one could possibly have recognized Mr. Applegarth, or his—er—friend.”
I certainly would not have recognized Ramses in his role of a middle-aged, wealthy American collector; even his accent was a devastatingly accurate imitation of our friend Cyrus’s voice. Nefret accompanied him, not in champagne satin and citrines, though the crimson ensemble she selected was almost as conspicuous. The only thing that could be said for it was that it concealed her identity quite successfully. It had been obvious to my eye at least that she had stuffed several handkerchiefs into her bodice, and there had been enough paint on her face to disguise three women.
“We still don’t know how he traced the first scarab to us,” Ramses said.
“We can hazard a guess, can’t we?” Nefret demanded. “I dropped an extremely broad hint to Jack Reynolds that day at the Savoy.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t narrow the possibilities enough,” said her brother irritably. “Jack may have passed the remark on to someone else. Mr. Renfrew may have broken his vow of silence. The culprit may have returned to Esdaile’s and learned we were there asking about ’Mr. Todros.’ Someone else may have been indiscreet.”
“It wasn’t me,” Nefret said indignantly. “You always blame me for talking out of turn. It isn’t fair.”
Ramses gave his sister a sour look, but nodded. “We are beginning to get a picture of the fellow, though, aren’t we? If he is not actually an Egyptologist, he has had extensive training; if he is not an artist himself, he has connections with someone who is. He is annoyingly well-acquainted with our habits, our habitat, and our circle of acquaintances. None of the dealers he approached knew David personally, but he knows David well enough to ape certain of his characteristics, including David’s preference for English over other languages, though he also speaks German and French and some Arabic.”
“He is an expert at disguise,” Nefret contributed.
“Not really,” Ramses said. “It doesn’t take much expertise to darken one’s complexion and assume a false beard and a turban.”
A particularly violent lurch of the vessel set the oil lamp swinging. The play of light and shadow across Emerson’s scowling face turned it into a diabolical mask. I knew what—or rather of whom—he was thinking. Only the Master Criminal could rouse Emerson to such ire.
We had never known his real name or his true appearance. He was an expert at disguise and the cleverest criminal we had ever encountered. For years he had ruled the iniquitous underworld of antiquities-smuggling and -fraud like the genius of crime he was. He had all the qualities Ramses had mentioned, and others as damning—a sardonic sense of humor and, as he had once admitted to me, some of the world’s most expert forgers in his employ.
“Out with it, Emerson,” I urged. “It is Sethos you suspect, is it not?”
“No,” said Emerson.
“You always suspect him. Admit it. Do not suppress your feelings; they will only fester and—”
“I do not suspect him. Do you?”
“Not in this case. He swore that he would never harm me or those I love—”
“Don’t be maudlin,” Emerson snarled. “You may be fool enough to believe the bastard’s protestations of noble, disinterested passion, but I know better. Curse it, Peabody, why did you have to bring him up? He can’t be behind