The Mummy Case - Elizabeth Peters [62]
From Emerson, behind me, came sounds of imminent strangulation. I turned to find that his apoplectic gaze was fixed, not on the lady’s ample charms, but upon another object. It was a handsome mummy case, gleaming with varnish, that stood carelessly propped against the grand piano like some outré parlor ornament. A table was covered with an equally casual display of antiquities—scarabs, ushebtis, vessels of pottery and stone. On another table were several papyrus scrolls.
The baroness began to writhe. After a moment I realized her movements were not those of a peculiar, recumbent dance, but merely an attempt to rise from the couch, which was low and soft. Succeeding in this, she swept forward to welcome us. Since Emerson made no move to take the hand she held under his nose, she snatched his. The vigorous shaking she gave it seemed to wake him from his stupor. His eyes focused in a malignant glare upon her conspicuous bosom, and he inquired, “Madam, do you realize the object you have slung across your chest is a priceless antiquity?”
The baroness rolled her eyes and covered the collar with ringed hands. “Ach, the monster! Would you tear it from my helpless body?”
“Not at all,” Emerson replied. “Rough handling might damage the collar.”
The baroness burst into a roar of laughter. “It is the truth, what they say about Emerson the most distinguished. They have of you me warned, that you would scold—”
“For heaven’s sake, madam, speak German,” Emerson interrupted, his scowl deepening.
The lady continued in that language. “Yes, yes, everyone speaks of Professor Emerson; they have told me you would scold me for my poor little antiquities. M. de Morgan is not so unkind as you.”
She proceeded to introduce the other guests. If she had deliberately selected a group designed to vex Emerson, she could hardly have done better—de Morgan, Kalenischeff (in faultless evening dress, complete with ribbon and monocle), Brother David, and three of what Emerson called “confounded tourists,” from the other dahabeeyahs. The only memorable remark made by any of the tourists the entire evening came from one of the English ladies, who remarked in a languid drawl, “But the ruins are so dilapidated! Why doesn’t someone repair them?”
The one person I expected to see was not present, and during a lull in the ensuing conversation I inquired of the baroness, “Where is Ramses?”
“Locked in one of the guest chambers,” was the reply. “Oh, do not concern yourself, Frau Emerson; he is happily engaged with a papyrus. But it was necessary for me to confine him. Already he has fallen overboard and been bitten by a lion—”
“Lion?” Emerson turned, with a cry, from the granite statue of Isis he had been examining.
“My lion cub,” the baroness explained. “I bought the adorable little creature from a dealer in Cairo.”
“Ah,” I said, enlightened. “Ramses was no doubt attempting to free the animal. Did he succeed?”
“Fortunately we were able to recapture it,” the baroness replied.
I was sorry to hear that. Ramses would undoubtedly try again.
The baroness reassured my snarling husband. The bite had not been deep and medical attention had been promptly applied. It was tacitly agreed that we would leave Ramses where he was until it was time to take him home. Emerson did not insist. He had other things on his mind.
These were, I hardly need say, the illicit antiquities collected by the baroness. He kept reverting to the subject despite the efforts of the others to keep the conversation on a light social plane, and after we had dined he finally succeeded in delivering his lecture. Striding up and down the salon, waving