The Hippopotamus Pool - Elizabeth Peters [153]
Conversation stopped abruptly upon our entrance. Eyes examined us as intently as we were studying them. I heard a few hisses of indrawn breath, and then, so silently and suddenly that a magician might have been at work, the place was almost empty. The lowering of the odds did not comfort me, however. Those who had wisely decided to leave must have been local residents; the faces of the remaining men were lighter in colour, with the unmistakable stamp of city dwellers – men of Lower Egypt, Cairenes, the dregs of that teeming metropolis.
Emerson spoke in his normal tones and in Arabic. ‘The son of a dog is hiding in his kennel, I see. Tell him the Father of Curses and the Sitt Hakim honour his filthy den.’
‘Do you think it wise to irritate him, Emerson?’ I whispered.
‘Rudeness is the only way to deal with vermin, my dear,’ said Emerson, without lowering his voice. He added in Arabic, ‘Quickly! I will see him now.’
He did not wait for a reply but strode towards the door at the back of the room, gesturing to me to follow. Before he reached it it was opened by an invisible hand and a familiar voice said, ‘Buon giorno, honoured guests. Enter my . . . kennel.’
The door closed after us with an unpleasantly solid sort of thud. A quick glance told me that the doorkeeper was one of Riccetti’s bodyguards. The other stood behind the couch where Riccetti reclined on a damask counterpane woven with gold threads.
The furnishings were a distinct improvement over the ones in the outer room. This chamber must be one of those reserved for wealthier clients. I thought Riccetti had probably brought the counterpane and the cushions and the fine crystal goblets with him, however. They were of a quality finer than the wooden table and chairs, the verdigrised brass lamps and threadbare carpet. I knew why he had overcome his delicate tastes to meet us here. It had been meant as an insult to me, for no decent woman of any nationality would enter the place. More important, it meant Riccetti was not as sure of himself as he would like us to believe. A man who held all the winning cards would not take such precautions.
The forlorn hope that dawned in my heart was short-lived. Riccetti gestured towards an object on the table. ‘You recognize it, of course?’
It was Ramses’ pocket notebook. He never went anywhere without it. Emerson picked it up, thumbed through it, and coolly put it in his shirt pocket. ‘Yes,’ he said curtly.
‘Then we have established the first premise on which our conversation will be based? Good. You must forgive my bad manners, Mrs Emerson. I would offer you a chair and a glass of wine if I thought there were the slightest possibility you would accept.’
‘I would not,’ I said.
‘A pity.’ Riccetti sipped delicately at his wine. ‘It is an excellent vintage. You want the boy back, I suppose. I can’t imagine why; he is a very irritating child.’
‘Tastes differ,’ said Emerson, as coolly as Riccetti. ‘And I would be averse to sharing any taste of yours. How did he find you?’
Riccetti chuckled. ‘It was I who found him. I have many – er – associates in Luxor; they were told to bring me word if anyone appeared to be interested in my whereabouts. I felt certain one of you would come looking for me sooner or later. The other day I came close to –’ His jaws closed with a snap. ‘But I was about to boast about my cleverness. You English despise that sort of thing, don’t you?’
‘Let us get to terms,’ Emerson said. ‘I suppose that in exchange for Ramses you want me to remove myself and my guards from the tomb and leave it to you.’
‘Dio mio, no!’ Riccetti’s eyes widened. ‘You mistake me entirely, my friend. Would I interfere with the finest excavator in Egypt? I want you to go on with your work – to clear the tomb and preserve its