The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [55]
One frequently hears, from English and European tourists, that all Egyptians look alike. This is nonsense, of course; Emerson calls it prejudice, and he is probably correct. I will admit, however, that the omnipresent, shapeless robes and turbans create an impression of uniformity. The facial hair to which our workers were addicted also added to the impression that they were all closely related to one another. Despite these handicaps, it was not five minutes before I had seen one particular face that made an electrifying impression on me.
I sped back to Emerson. “He is here,” I exclaimed. “In section A-twenty-four. Come at once, Emerson.”
Emerson, with a singularly sour expression on his face, was inspecting the first find of the day—a crude pottery lamp. He glowered. “Who is here, Amelia?”
I paused a moment for effect. “The man who was talking to Abd el Atti.”
Emerson flung the lamp onto the ground. “What the devil are you talking about? What man?”
“You must remember. I described him to you. He spoke the gold sellers’ argot, and when he saw me, he—”
“Are you out of your senses?” Emerson bellowed.
I seized his arm. “Come quickly, Emerson.”
As we went, I explained. “He was a very ill-favored fellow, Emerson. I will never forget his face. Only ask yourself why he should turn up here, unless he is following us with some nefarious purpose in mind.”
“Where is this villain?” Emerson inquired, with deceptive mildness.
“There.” I pointed.
“You, there,” Emerson called.
The man straightened. His eyes widened in simulated surprise. “You speak to me, effendi?”
“Yes, to you. What is your name?”
“Hamid, effendi.”
“Ah, yes, I remember. You are not a local man.”
“I come from Manawat, effendi, as I told you. We heard there was work here.”
The answer came readily. The fellow’s eyes never left Emerson’s face. I considered this highly suspicious.
“Proceed discreetly, Emerson,” I said in a low voice. “If accused, he may strike at you with his pick.”
“Bah,” said Emerson. “When were you last in Cairo, Hamid?”
“Cairo? I have never been there, effendi.”
“Do you know Abd el Atti, the dealer in antiquities?”
“No, effendi.”
Emerson gestured him to return to his work and drew me aside. “There, you see? You are imagining things again, Amelia.”
“Of course he will deny everything, Emerson. You did not carry out a proper interrogation. But never mind; I didn’t suppose we would wring a confession from the villain. I only wanted to draw your attention to him.”
“Do me a favor,” Emerson said. “Don’t draw my attention to anyone, or anything, unless it has been dead at least a thousand years. This work is tedious enough. I do not need further aggravation.” And off he marched, grumbling.
To be honest, I was beginning to regret I had acted so precipitately. I might have known Emerson would question my identification, and now I had let my suspect know I was suspicious of him. It would have been better to let him believe his disguise (of an indigo turban) had not been penetrated.
The damage was done. Perhaps, knowing my eyes were upon him. Hamid might be moved to rash action, such as a direct attack on one of us. Cheered by this reasoning, I returned to my work.
Yet I found it difficult to concentrate on what I was supposed to be doing. My gaze kept returning to the northern horizon, where the Dahshoor pyramids rose like mocking reminders of a forbidden paradise. Gazing upon them I knew how Eve must have felt when she looked back at the flowers and lush foliage of Eden, from which she was forever barred. (Another example of masculine duplicity, I might add. Adam was under no compulsion to eat of the fruit, and his attempt to shift the blame onto his trusting spouse was, to say the least, unmanly.)
Because of this distraction I was the first to see the approaching rider. Mounted