The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [141]
“Worming his way into our confidence,” I said grimly. “You represented yourself as an archaeological artist in order to get a position with Mr. Vandergelt. A scheme worthy of Kevin himself.”
“Not so clever,” Anderson admitted. “I can sketch a bit, and thought I could carry out the deception for a few days, but when Mr. Vandergelt refused to hire me without seeing my portfolio, I knew I’d have to try some other method.”
“Ha,” Emerson exclaimed. “I was right, you see. I said those bastards would stop at nothing, even blowing up the guardhouse.”
Anderson’s eyes widened in alarm. “No, sir, I never did that! Look here, let’s call it square. You’ve smashed my camera and ruined some first-rate pictures, so I’ll just be on my way.”
“How did you get here?” I asked.
Anderson grimaced. “Walked. All the way from the East Valley. Me and a dozen Egyptians. They said you were here yesterday, looking for something, so they figured they would have a look too.”
“Damnation,” said Emerson. “Did they find anything?”
“I don’t think so, but they’re sneaky rascals. They ran off when you came along.”
“Hell and damnation,” said Emerson. “I have a few questions to ask you, Mr. Anderson, and this is not the time or the place for an interrogation. Hassan, escort this person back to our house and keep him there until we return.”
Anderson had perked up as the discussion became more civilized. His face fell. “But, sir, I haven’t any transport. Not even a confounded donkey.”
“You got here on foot, you can return the same way.” Emerson bared his large white teeth. “Off you go. And don’t try to bribe Hassan, he is incorruptible.”
Hassan glanced at his father, Daoud, who stood with arms folded. “He is,” said Daoud. “Whatever it means.”
We watched them walk off together. Anderson was limping.
Sethos removed the handkerchief from his nose. “Thank you, Nefret. It’s stopped bleeding.”
“I’m an expert at nosebleeds,” said Nefret.
“Er,” said Emerson.
“Apology accepted,” said Sethos with a grin. “Accept mine as well. I didn’t mean what I said.”
“It was well done,” Ramses conceded. “Anderson was so fascinated he didn’t spot me until I was on top of him.”
Emerson, who had gone as far as he was capable of going in the way of apology, uttered the familiar litany. “Back to work. We have to find the statuette today or risk one of those energetic rascals stealing a march on us.”
“It’s over there,” said Sethos. “About eight feet to the left of the entrance, buried in the scree.”
No one so much as questioned that arrogant assertion. In an unruly scamper the whole lot us of went pelting back toward the spot he had described. It took a few minutes to retrieve the wrapped bundle, since we had to proceed with care, but the disturbance of the scree was so obvious I could only wonder why none of us had observed it. Because it was too obvious! We had assumed Daffinger would take greater pains to conceal his prize.
Emerson unwrapped enough of the bundle to make certain we had found what we sought. Cradling it as tenderly as if it were an infant, he hurried back to where his brother had seated himself nonchalantly on a rock. “How did you know?”
Sethos ruefully examined his stained handkerchief. “I asked myself where I would have hidden it. Like Daffinger, I am averse to strenuous exercise.”
Cyrus burst out laughing. “Like the old saw about where to look for the lost horse, eh?”
“As Amelia would say, there is often profound truth in such aphorisms.”
I had been just about to say that.
We passed Mr. Anderson and Hassan on our way back to the East Valley. Anderson raised a face of piteous appeal; he looked so miserable, hobbling and dripping with perspiration, that Nefret pleaded with Emerson to let him ride for a while. Emerson, who could have walked the whole distance without breaking into a glow, shook his head and gave Mr. Anderson an evil smile. He hates journalists even more than he hates tourists.
However, he is not a cruel or vindictive man, and Nefret’s