The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [23]
“Well…Good heavens,” I exclaimed. “I had forgotten. We have a rendezvous this night, Emerson. The distressing news quite shook it out of my head.”
Emerson sat down on the bed. “Not again,” he said. “You promised me, Amelia…What are you up to now?”
I told him what had transpired at the bazaar. Little gasps and cries escaped his lips as I proceeded, but I raised my voice and went on, determined to present him with a connected narrative. At the end I produced the scrap of papyrus.
“Obviously Abd el Atti was lying when he claimed he had no papyri,” I said. “To be sure, this is Coptic, but—”
Emerson pushed the fragment aside. “Precisely. Walter is not interested in Coptic; that is the language of Christian Egypt.”
“I am well aware of that, Emerson. This fragment proves—”
“You had no business going to that fat scoundrel. You know what I think of—”
“And you know that the dealers are likely to have the best manuscripts. I promised Walter—”
“But this is not—”
“Where there is one scrap there must be a papyrus. I—”
“I told you—”
“I am convinced—”
“You—”
“You—”
By this time we were both on our feet and our voices had risen considerably. I make no apologies for my exasperation. Emerson would try the patience of a saint. He loses his temper on the slightest provocation.
We broke off speaking at the same time, and Emerson began pacing rapidly up and down the room. In the silence the rise and fall of Ramses’ voice went placidly on.
Finally Emerson left off pacing. Rapid movement generally calms him, and I will do him the justice to admit that although he is quick to explode, he is equally quick to regain his temper. I smoothed his ruffled locks. “I told Abd el Atti we would come to the shop tonight.”
“So you said. What you failed to explain is why the devil I should put myself out for the old rascal. There are other things I would rather do tonight.”
His eyes sparkled significantly as he looked at me, but I resisted the appeal. “He is desperately afraid of something or someone, Emerson. I believe he is involved in the illicit antiquities business.”
“Well, of course he is, Peabody. All of them are.”
“I am referring, Emerson, to the recent, unprecedented flood of stolen objects you and Walter were discussing. You yourself said that some new player must have entered the game—some unknown genius of crime, who has organized the independent thieves into one great conspiracy.”
“I said no such thing! I only suggested—”
“Abd el Atti is a member of the gang. His reference to the Master eating his heart—”
“Picturesque, but hardly convincing,” said Emerson. His tone was less vehement, however, and I saw that my arguments had made an impression. He went on, “Are you certain you understood correctly? I cannot believe he would make a damaging admission in your presence.”
“He didn’t know I was present. Besides—weren’t you listening, Emerson?—he was speaking the siim issaagha.”
“Very well,” Emerson said. “I agree that Abd el Atti may well be involved in something deeper and darker than his usual shady activities. But your notion that he is a member of some imaginary gang is pure surmise. You have an absolutely unique ability to construct a towering structure of theory on one single fact. Foundationless towers totter, my dear Peabody. Control your rampageous imagination and spare your afflicted spouse, I beg.”
He was working himself into another fit of temper, so I only said mildly, “But supposing I am right, Emerson? We may have an opportunity to stop this vile traffic in antiquities, which we both abhor. Is not the chance of that, however remote, worth the trifling inconvenience I propose?”
“Humph,” said Emerson.
I knew the grunt was as close to a concession as I was likely to get, so I did not pursue the discussion, which would have been ended in any case by the advent of our son, announcing that the Arabic lesson was over. I did not want Ramses to get wind of our plan. He would have insisted on accompanying us, and his father might have been foolish enough to agree.
I was about