The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [52]
I apologized for disturbing de Morgan. “Not at all, madame,” he replied, yawning. “I was about to arise.”
“High time, too,” said my husband. “You will never get on if you follow this eastern custom of sleeping in the afternoon. Nor will you locate the burial chamber in that amateurish way—digging tunnels at random, instead of searching for the original opening to the substructure—”
With a forced laugh, de Morgan broke in. “Mon vieux, I refuse to discuss professional matters until I have greeted your charming lady. And this must be young Master Emerson—how do you do, my lad?”
“Very well, thank you,” said Ramses. “May I go and look at de pyramid?”
“A true archaeologist already,” said the Frenchman. “Mais certainement, mon petit.”
I gestured at Selim, who had maintained a respectful distance, and he followed Ramses. De Morgan offered us chairs and something to drink. We were sipping wine when one of the tent flaps opened and another man appeared, yawning and stretching.
“By the Almighty,” said Emerson in surprise. “It is that rascal Kalenischeff. What the devil is he doing here?”
De Morgan’s eyebrows rose, but he said only, “He offered his services. One can always use an extra pair of hands, you know.”
“He knows less about excavation than Ramses,” said Emerson.
“I will be glad of Master Ramses’ expertise,” said de Morgan, smiling but clearly annoyed. “Ah, your highness—you have met Professor and Mrs. Emerson?”
Kalenischeff shook Emerson’s hand, kissed mine, apologized for his disarray, asked after Ramses, commented on the heat and hoped that we were pleased with Mazghunah. Neither of us felt inclined to reply to this last remark. Kalenischeff put his monocle in his eye and ogled me in a familiar fashion. “At any rate, Madame lends beauty to an otherwise dismal site,” he said. “What a fetching costume!”
“I did not come here to talk about women’s clothing,” said Emerson, scowling fiercely as the Russian studied my booted calves.
“Of course not,” Kalenischeff said smoothly. “Any advice or assistance we can offer you—”
That is only a sample of the unsatisfactory tenor of the conversation. Every time Emerson tried to introduce a sensible subject, de Morgan talked about the weather or the Russian made some slighting suggestion. Needless to say, I burned with indignation at seeing my husband, so infinitely superior in all ways, insulted by these two, and finally I decided to suffer it no longer. I can, when necessary, raise my voice to a pitch and volume very trying to the ears, and impossible to ignore.
“I wish to talk to you about the illegal antiquities trade,” I said.
Kalenischeff’s monocle fell from his eye, de Morgan choked in mid-swallow, the servants jumped, and one dropped the glass he was holding. Having achieved my immediate goal of capturing the gentlemen’s attention, I continued in a more moderate tone. “As director of Antiquities, monsieur, you are of course fully informed about the situation. What steps are you taking to halt this nefarious trade and imprison the practitioners?”
De Morgan cleared his throat. “The usual steps, madame.”
“Now, monsieur, that will not suffice.” I shook my finger playfully and raised my voice a notch or two. “You are not addressing an empty-headed lady tourist; you are talking to me. I know more than you suppose. I know, for instance, that the extent of the trade has increased disastrously; that an unknown Master Criminal has entered the game—”
“The devil!” Kalenischeff cried. His monocle, which he had replaced, again fell from its place. “Er—your pardon, Madame Emerson…”
“You appear surprised,” I said. “Is this information new to you, your highness?”
“There has always been illicit digging. But your talk of a Master Criminal…” He shrugged.
“His highness is