The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [83]
No one spoke until Ramses had concluded the narrative with a statement of the negative results of our visits to the Cairo dealers. “We will find the man, though,” he said, meeting Selim’s dark gaze.
“Quite right,” I said briskly.
Cyrus brought his big hand down on his knee. “Well now, that’s a thunderbolt, and no mistake! I was wondering how to bring up the subject.”
“Damnation,” said Emerson mildly. “You bought one of the fakes, Vandergelt? Why didn’t you mention it?”
“I didn’t know it was a forgery,” Cyrus protested. “Consarn it, Emerson, I still don’t think it is. What had me in a stew was the provenance—the alleged provenance, I guess I should say. It seemed real strange that David would be selling Abdullah’s collection to dealers instead of offering it direct to friends like—well, like me. He’d have got a better price, and done me a favor.”
“That did not arouse your suspicions?” Emerson demanded. “Really, Vandergelt, an old hand like you ought to have known better.”
“Well, maybe so.” Cyrus took out one of his favorite cheroots. He made rather a long business about lighting it, and after waiting in vain for him to elaborate, Emerson bared his teeth in a humorless smile.
“You see what we are up against,” he remarked to the room at large. “Vandergelt knows us well; he knew and respected Abdullah. Yet even he was willing to believe in this apocryphal collection.”
“I wouldn’t think the less of Abdullah if he had done such a thing,” Cyrus said defensively. “Doggone it, Emerson, I admire your principles but they are sure unrealistic. And I could understand why David might decide to dispose of the objects without telling you. You’d have raised Cain.”
Selim spoke for the first time, in a voice as flat and sharp as a knife blade. “My honored father had no collection of antiquities.”
“You’re sure?” Cyrus asked. The young man’s eyes flashed, and Cyrus held up a conciliatory hand. “I don’t doubt your word, Selim, I’m just trying to get things straight.”
“Abdullah was a man of honor and my friend,” said Emerson. “I would not have blamed him for doing what most men, Egyptian and English, have done. I do not believe he would have done it behind my back.”
“He would not,” Selim said. “But this story makes no sense, Father of Curses. You say the objects are fakes. If that is so, and you are never wrong about such things, then it is not my father but David whose honor is in question. Collecting antiquities is not a crime. Selling forgeries is. Would David go to prison if he were proved guilty?”
Daoud let out a bellow of alarm. The complexities which had been clear to Selim’s quick intelligence had confused our simple friend, but he understood the last sentence.
Nefret squeezed his hand. “He is not guilty, Daoud, and we will prove it. This is where we need your help. The forgeries are perfect, even better than the ones made by David’s former master, Abd el Hamed. Have you heard of anyone like that?”
Daoud shook his head. Simple is not the same as stupid; there was nothing wrong with Daoud’s brain, it just moved a little slower than some. “I cannot think of such a man. Can you, Selim?”
“Not in Gurneh.” Selim sounded positive, as well he might. Like his father, he had a wide acquaintance with the antiquities dealers of his hometown. “But Egypt is long. Aswan, Beni Hassan—any village could produce such a genius. Better than Abd el Hamed, you say? That is hard to believe.”
“You can have a look for yourself,” Ramses said. “As I said, we were able to buy several of them. I’ll get them, shall I, Father?”
Emerson nodded. “I don’t suppose you brought your purchase, Vandergelt? What was it?”
“I did bring it. Had to; bought it in Berlin, didn’t trust the international mails to get it home safe.”
He and Ramses went off. The atmosphere had changed; it was rather like the feeling of relief that follows a violent family argument (a condition with which I am only too familiar). How well they had all taken the news! A refreshing sense