The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [6]
“I presume this was not one of the objects you saw when you visited Petherick,” said Emerson.
Cyrus shook his head. In silence he held out his hand—it trembled perceptibly—and Emerson gave him the statue.
“Mrs. Petherick said he did not acquire it until shortly before his death,” I said.
“She…” Cyrus cleared his throat. “She gave you this? In exchange for what?”
“My promise that I would take upon myself the wrath of the original owner,” said Emerson with a superior smile. “Bad luck, Vandergelt. Had you my reputation for superstitious hokery-pokery, she might have gone to you.”
“Don’t tease, Emerson,” I said.
The drawing-room door opened, and Fatima appeared. “Dinner is—” Before she could finish the sentence, a man pushed past her and entered the room. He was tall and cadaverously thin, the black of his evening suit matching windblown ebony hair, his long face as white as his shirtfront; but I believe no one took much notice of his appearance at that time. Our attention was concentrated on the pistol he held.
“Give it back,” he cried, waving the weapon wildly. “Give it to me now, and no one will be hurt.”
His hungry eyes were fixed on the statuette. Clutching it still more firmly, Cyrus took a step back. “Now see here, young fellow,” he began.
“Don’t argue, Vandergelt,” said Emerson. “If the statuette is his property, we must certainly return it. Sir, may I suggest you put the gun away? There are ladies present.”
The appeal had an effect reason had not. The fellow’s high white brow wrinkled. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
He took his finger off the trigger and lowered the weapon a trifle; it now pointed at my feet instead of my head. This was something of an improvement, but not entirely reassuring. I smiled graciously, holding his gaze, and Ramses, who had been edging sideways in that noiseless fashion of his, caught hold of the fellow from behind, gripping his right wrist and forcing his arm down. The weapon thumped onto the floor and the intruder let out a cry of pain.
“It was locked on safety,” said Ramses coolly.
“Very good,” said Emerson, who had, of course, been aware of the maneuver from the start. “You had better keep hold of him.”
The intruder stood passive in Ramses’s grasp, his head bowed. Cyrus took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and mopped his brow; Katherine sank back in her chair with a long sigh. Fatima had prudently retired to the farthest corner of the room, but had betrayed no signs of alarm, since she took it for granted that we could handle any situation, up to and including armed assault.
“Sitt Hakim,” she said somewhat accusingly, “dinner is—”
She got no further with the announcement than she had before. This time the person who pushed her aside was a woman, smartly dressed in a beaded evening frock and a cloak trimmed with marabou feathers. She let out a piercing scream, flung the cloak aside, and rushed at Ramses. “How dare you! Release him at once!”
She began pounding at Ramses with clenched fists. Ramses raised one arm to protect his face, and Nefret, swearing, went to his assistance. Avoiding the flailing fists, she administered a sharp kick on the ankle. The woman sat down suddenly on the floor.
“Well, really,” I said in exasperation. “It appears we are not to dine anytime soon. Young woman, who the devil are you, and what do you mean by this?”
The fall had knocked the breath out of her, and some sense into her. Despite her undignified position, limbs asprawl, long dark hair loosened and skirt crumpled, she maintained an air of self-possession. “I came for my brother,” she said. “Adrian, have they hurt you?”
Holding his mute, unresisting captive with one arm, Ramses said, “The only damage inflicted on anyone has been done by your brother and you. Is it his habit to threaten strangers with a pistol?”
She hadn’t seen the pistol until then. Her lips tightened and she looked up at Ramses with a stare that held more accusation than apology. For a moment their eyes locked. Then she got slowly to her feet, straightening