The Golden One - Elizabeth Peters [74]
“Yes, of course,” Nefret murmured. “You are terrifyingly single-minded when you go after something or someone, Mother.”
“Not at all, my dear. I have no difficulty in thinking of several things at once.”
Her brow cleared and the corners of her mouth turned up. “So long as you aren’t having one of your famous premonitions about Jamil.”
To call the feeling a premonition or foreboding would not have been entirely accurate. It was, rather, based on expert knowledge of the criminal mind and a certain degree of informed cynicism. Criminals, in my experience, do not suddenly turn into honest men. Jamil was still in need of money and he was still resentful of us. Nothing had changed there, and the more often we frustrated his attempts to get what he wanted, the more resentful he would be.
Mohassib was the best-known and most highly respected (by everyone except Emerson) antiquities dealer in Luxor. He had been dying for at least ten years, and was dying at that very moment, so the doorkeeper informed me.
“Then he will wish to see me before he passes on,” I replied, handing over the expected baksheesh.
He was in bed, propped up on pillows and looking like a biblical patriarch with his snowy beard and mustache; but he was not alone. I stopped short when I recognized the Albions.
“I beg your pardon,” I said. “The doorkeeper did not tell me you had other visitors.”
“That’s okay,” said Mr. Albion, who seemed to make a habit of answering remarks addressed to other persons. “We were about to leave anyhow. Good to see you, Mrs. Emerson—and Mrs. Emerson. Hope you didn’t come here to bid on any of Mohassib’s treasures. I’ve already made him an offer.”
“Indeed?” I took a chair, indicating my intention of remaining. “I was under the impression that you meant to find yourself a tomb robber instead of buying from dealers.”
Mrs. Albion’s lips parted, like a crack in a block of ice. “Mr. Albion was teasing, Mrs. Emerson. He has a marvelous sense of humor.”
“That’s right,” said her husband merrily. “I’m quite a tease, Mrs. Emerson. Well, see you folks later.”
The younger Mr. Albion, mute as usual, followed his parents out.
After we had exchanged compliments and inquired after one another’s health, and Mohassib had ordered tea for us, he said, “Are they friends of yours, Sitt?”
“Mere acquaintances.”
“Good.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked curiously.
“They are strange people. I am a good judge of strange people, Sitt Hakim, and I would not trust that happy little man. He wants too much for too little.”
“What did he want?” Nefret inquired. “Part of the princesses’ treasure? Or all of it?”
“Treasure?” Mohassib repeated, widening his eyes. No saint could have looked more innocent. “Ah—you are referring to the rumors about a rich find in the Gabbanat el-Qirud. The men of Luxor are great liars, Nur Misur. Perhaps there was no treasure.”
“Come now, Mohammed,” I said. “You know there was such a find and I know the thieves sold it to you, and you know I cannot prove that, and I know that even if I could there is little likelihood of your being charged with a crime. Why not speak freely to me, your old friend? Vandergelt Effendi would pay well for such objects, if they are as described.”
We settled down, with mutual enjoyment, to the customary exchange of hints and innuendos, winks and nods and pursed lips and raised eyebrows. I rather prided myself on my ability to carry on this form of communication, which Emerson could not or would not do. Mohassib eventually remarked pensively that if he should hear of such objects he would be happy to do his friends a service.
“Excellent,” I said, knowing that was as much as I could expect. Mohassib always played his little game of innocence and ignorance, but in this case the business had caused quite a stir, and I suspected he would not make any move to market the objects