The Serpent on the Crown - Elizabeth Peters [74]
Shrieks of delight and approval arose from the crowd. I saw a slim black form slither snakelike farther into the darkness. All other eyes were fixed on the mighty form of Emerson. (I was sorry to see he was smoldering again.)
“And now in conclusion,” Emerson shouted, “I return the object of the curse to the fires of Gehenna!” From the breast of his robe he drew out a shape that glowed gold-red in the firelight, and pitched it into the flames.
Sethos was laughing uncontrollably. “In conclusion!” he sputtered. Cyrus sprang to his feet with a cry of anguish, and would have rushed out the door had I not got in his way.
“No, Cyrus. Stop and think before you act.”
The performance ended rather abruptly when Emerson extinguished the fire with a conveniently placed bucket of water. A column of smoke replaced the flames. Coughing, the crowd retreated, and Emerson came to the door.
“Not so bad, eh?” he inquired. “Curse it, I can’t see a thing. Light the lamps, someone.”
He entered, tossing off his robe (one of my best sheets).
“How many garments did you destroy?” I inquired, having recognized the “leopard skin” as the remnants of a woolen jumper.
“Was that, by chance, one of my evening cloaks?” Nefret asked in a carefully controlled voice.
“I’ll get you another,” Emerson said. “Good gad, is that all you can think about? I expected commendation, if not riotous applause.”
The applause broke out, mingled with laughter and comments. Emerson was pouring the whiskey when Ramses came in through the house. They were his best trousers. Or had been.
“Here you are, my boy,” said Emerson, handing him a glass. “And well deserved. I hope I didn’t bruise you too badly.”
“No, sir. Thank you.” Ramses flattened his tumbled hair. “How did it go, do you think?”
“It wasn’t bad,” Sethos said judiciously. “Not bad at all. Though if you had let me take a hand—”
I gave him a little kick on the shin to remind him that Anthony Bissinghurst was a harmless archaeological amateur, not a Master of Disguise.
“We saw it from behind the scenes, so to speak,” Lansing said. He was still chuckling. “From the point of view of the spectators, it must have been extremely effective. Winlock will be sick at having missed it.”
“The audience was not uncritical,” I pointed out. “How many of them were actually convinced is difficult to say.”
“It does not matter,” said Selim. “What matters is that they enjoyed it.”
“Just tell me,” Cyrus pleaded, “that you didn’t throw the statue into the fire.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Emerson said rudely. “It would require a hotter flame than that to melt solid gold. What went into the fire was made from the mold we cast the other night. Plaster of paris. I spent an hour painting it gold.”
After our guests had left, Emerson went off to bathe, for he was quite smutty. I was brushing my hair when he returned, a little singed around the calves, but extremely pleased with himself.
“That should settle the black afrit,” he declared, embracing me. “What about a reward for the magician, eh?”
I put down the brush and gave him his reward. “It was well done,” I said, between kisses. “But I had hoped Mrs. Petherick would be unable to resist attending. I didn’t see her in the audience.”
“Neither did I. Ah well, she’ll turn up eventually.”
She did turn up, early the following morning. She had not been as lucky as Heinrich Lidman.
We were officially informed of the discovery by Inspector Ayyid. We were finishing breakfast when he was announced. Looking round at our grave faces, Ayyid said, “I see you have heard the news. I suppose it was Daoud who told you. Perhaps he would consider working for me; he seems to get information before my men do.”
“Our informants are assiduous but not always accurate,” I said, waving him to a chair. “We would appreciate hearing the facts. You will join us for breakfast, I hope?”
“Coffee, if you will be so good.” Ayyid’s eyes fixed on Sethos. “I do not believe I have met this gentleman.”
Napkin in hand, Sethos rose and made an elegant