The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [117]
“The devil with Smith, eh?” said Emerson, whose fond paternal brow had furrowed. He is such a hopeless sentimentalist, he hates to see the children exchange hard words; whereas I, who understand the human heart better, knew that little disagreements are natural and healthy. On this occasion his remark had the desired effect. The lines of tension left Nefret’s face and she smiled affectionately at Emerson.
“Quite right, Father. Let us drink to it: The devil with Mr. Smith!”
He had at least enough courtesy to allow us to finish our dinner in peace. The waiter was hovering, waiting to remove our plates, when he approached us. The lady was not with him.
“Will you allow me to offer you a liquor or a glass of brandy?” he asked.
“I don’t want any damned brandy,” said Emerson, glowering. “Or a conversation with you.”
“I think you had better, Professor.”
Emerson’s face brightened. “Is that a threat?” he asked hopefully.
I had once before observed in Smith the rudiments of a sense of humor. Amusement narrowed his eyes and he shook his head emphatically. “Good Lord, no. Threatening you, Professor Emerson, is tantamount to teasing a tiger. However, I am sure you will want to hear what I have to say, and if I am mistaken, you will—er—take whatever steps occur to you. May I sit down?”
“Oh, I suppose so,” Emerson grumbled. “Just be quick about it. You want Ramses for some other filthy job, I suppose. He has already refused. What makes you suppose that you can change his mind?”
“He is wanted,” Smith said quietly. “And I think he will change his mind.”
Nefret caught hold of Ramses’s hand. Ramses gave her a quick glance from under lowered lids, and although his controlled countenance did not change, I knew he had misunderstood, and resented, the gesture. It was not one of possessiveness but of fear—the unreasoning panic of a child reaching out for comfort in a dark room.
“He will,” Smith went on, “because he won’t want to see a close friend face a firing squad. Someone closer than a friend, in fact. A kinsman.”
There was no doubt as to whom he meant. Nefret’s face turned pale, Emerson’s turned red. “Don’t speak, Emerson,” I exclaimed. “Don’t anyone speak until he has explained what he means.”
“You know who I mean,” Smith said, with that thin, satisfied smirk I remembered so well. “He has turned traitor. Gone over to the enemy.”
FROM MANUSCRIPT H
Nefret had told herself there was no reason to be apprehensive. She had Ramses’s word, and he would not break it. But because she was so intensely aware of the emotions he succeeded in concealing from almost everyone but her, she had sensed his growing restlessness and feelings of guilt at going on with his work while friends and kin were fighting and dying. He wouldn’t fight, but his unique skills could be of use without violating his pacifist principles, and there was one appeal he would find impossible to resist: danger to her or his parents or a friend. It was difficult to classify the enigmatic, eccentric individual who was Emerson’s half brother, but whether he was friend or foe—over the years he had been both—they were indebted to him.
Emerson’s sun-browned face was almost as expressionless as that of his son, and when he spoke, it was in a soft purring voice. “That’s a lie.”
Smith leaned forward. “Then prove it.”
“I thought it was Ramses you wanted,” said Emerson, in the same soft voice.
“It is. May I explain?”
“You had damned well better,” said Emerson. “Peabody, my dear, would you care for a whiskey and soda?”
Nefret had never been certain precisely how her mother-in-law felt about the man who had pursued her so ardently all those years; obviously she cared