The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [41]
“A common sneak thief would not dare enter the hotel, Emerson. Even if the safragi is asleep most of the time.”
Emerson sat back on his haunches. “I know what you are thinking,” he cried accusingly. “You will insist on some connection with the death of Abd el Atti.”
“It would be a strange coincidence if the two events were not connected.”
“Stranger coincidences have happened. What could he have been after?”
“The mummy portrait,” I suggested.
Emerson looked uncomfortable. “I intend to hand it over to the Museum, Amelia.”
“Of course.”
“It is a handsome piece of work, but not valuable,” Emerson mused, rubbing his chin. “Did you—er—rescue anything from the shop?”
“Only a scrap of papyrus, which appeared to be from the same manuscript as the one I obtained from Abd el Atti.”
“Both together would not be worth the risk taken by the thief.” Emerson seated himself. Elbow on his knee, chin on his hand, he might have sat as the model for M. Rodin’s splendid statue, even to his costume—or, to put it as delicately as possible, the absence thereof. Emerson refuses to wear a nightshirt, and the new fad of pajamas has prompted a number of rude jests from him.
“The papyrus from which the fragments came might conceivably be of value,” he said after a time. “Sayce was intrigued, though he tried to hide it—the devious fellow. We do not have the papyrus, though. Do we?”
“Emerson, you cut me to the quick. When have I ever deceived you about something of importance?”
“Quite often, Amelia. However, in this case I will take your word. You agree that we possess nothing that would explain a visit from an emissary of your imaginary Master Criminal?”
“Not to my knowledge. However—”
Emerson rose majestically to his feet. “The invasion was that of a common ordinary thief,” he proclaimed, in orotund tones. “That is the end of it. Come to bed, Amelia.”
Five
Mazghunah.
Mazghunah! Mazghunah…
No, there is no magic in the name, punctuate it as one will. Not even a row of exclamation points can lend charm to such an uncouth collection of syllables. Giza, Sakkara, Dahshoor are no more euphonious, perhaps, but they evoke the lure of antiquity and exploration. Mazghunah has nothing whatever to recommend it.
It does possess a railway station, and we descended from the train to find that we were eagerly awaited. Towering above the spectators who had gathered on the platform was the stately form of our reis, Abdullah, who had gone on ahead to arrange for transport and accommodations. He is the most dignified of men, almost as tall as Emerson—that is to say, above the average Egyptian height—with a sweeping array of facial hair that turns a shade lighter every year, so that it will soon rival the snowy whiteness of his robe. Yet he has the energy of a young man, and when he saw us a broad smile lightened the solemnity of his bronzed countenance.
After our luggage had been loaded onto the donkeys Abdullah had selected, we mounted our own steeds. “Forward, Peabody,” Emerson cried. “Forward, I say!”
Cheeks flushed and eyes glowing, he urged his donkey into a trot. It is impossible for a tall man to look heroic when mounted on one of these little beasts; but as I watched Emerson jog away, his elbows out and his knees well up, the smile that curved my lips was not one of derision. Emerson was in his element, happy as a man can be only when he has found his proper niche in life. Not even the disappointment of de Morgan’s decision could crush that noble spirit.
The inundation was receding, but sheets of water still lay on the fields. Following the dikes of the primitive irrigation system, we rode on until suddenly the green of the trees and young crops gave way to the barren soil of the desert, in a line so sharp it appeared to have been drawn by a celestial hand. Ahead lay the scene of our winter’s work.
Never will I forget the profound depression that seized me when I first beheld the site of Mazghunah. Beyond the low and barren hills bordering the cultivation, a vast expanse of rubble-strewn sand stretched westward as