The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [18]
Abd el Atti sat like a glittering statue, his hands rock-steady; but a strange livid hue overspread his face. The harmless word “papyri” had wrought that remarkable change; could it be, I wondered, that a cache of these objects had been found? I saw myself exposing the criminal ring, arresting the criminals, carrying back basketfuls of papyri to Walter.
Abd el Atti cleared his throat. “It grieves me that I cannot assist one whom I would wish to honor. Alas, alas, I have no papyri.”
Well, I had expected that. Abd el Atti never had the object one wanted, and if my suspicions were correct (as I felt sure they were) he had pressing reasons for refusing to admit that he possessed those particular objects. I did not doubt, however, that cupidity would eventually overcome his caution. He had to market his loot to someone; why not to me?
So I proceeded to the next stage of the negotiations, which usually ended with Abd el Atti suddenly remembering that he had heard of such a thing—not that he made a habit of dealing with thieves, but as a favor to an old friend he might be willing to act as middleman…. But to my surprise Abd el Atti remained firm. He offered me other antiquities, but not papyri.
Finally I said, “It is a pity, my friend. I will have to go to another dealer. I regret this; I would rather have bought from you.” And I made as if to rise.
This was the last stage in the maneuvering and usually brought the desired result. An expression of agony crossed Abd el Atti’s rotund face, but he shook his head. “I also regret, honored Sitt. But I have no papyri.”
His fat body filled the narrow doorway of the shop. Over his shoulder there appeared a strange appendage, like a third arm—a small, thin arm clothed in brown tweed. Ramses’ voice piped, “Mama, may I speak now?”
Abd el Atti made a frantic grab for the object Ramses was holding. He missed. Before he could try again, a heavy weight landed on his shoulder, tipping him backward. He let out a shriek and began beating the air with ringed brown hands. Bastet leaped again, onto the mastaba next to me, and Ramses squeezed through the space the cat had cleared for him. He was still holding the scrap of papyrus.
I took it from him. “Where did you find this?” I asked, in English.
“In de room behind de curtain,” said Ramses. He squatted beside me, crossing his legs in Egyptian style. Gesturing at Bastet, he added, “I was looking for de cat Bastet. You told me not to let her wander off.”
Abd el Atti levered himself to an upright position. I expected he would be angry—and indeed he had some reason to be—but the look he gave the great brindled cat and the small boy held a touch of superstitious terror. I saw his hand move in a quick gesture—the old charm against the evil eye and the forces of darkness. “I know nothing of it,” he said heavily. “I have never seen it before.”
The scrap had been broken off a larger manuscript. It was roughly rectangular and about six inches by four in size. The papyrus was brown with age, but less brittle than such relics usually are, and the writing stood out black and firm.
“It is not hieratic or demotic,” I said. “These are Greek letters.”
“It is as I said,” Abd el Atti babbled. “You asked for Egyptian papyri, Sitt; this is not what you desire.”
“I t’ink dat de writing is Coptic,” said Ramses, legs crossed, arms folded. “It is Egyptian—de latest form of de language.”
“I believe you are correct,” I said, examining the fragment again. “I will take it, Abd el Atti, since you have nothing better. How much?”
The dealer made an odd, jerky gesture of resignation. “I ask nothing. But I warn you, Sitt—”
“Are you threatening me, Abd el Atti?”
“Allah forbid!” For once the dealer sounded wholly sincere. Again he glanced nervously at the cat, at Ramses, who contemplated him in unblinking silence, and at me. And behind me, I knew, he saw the shadow of Emerson, whom the Egyptians called Father of Curses. The combination