The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [111]
“Expressed with your customary acumen, Cyrus,” I exclaimed. “It would be disingenuous and disloyal of me to deny the fact itself, though I can give you no further details.”
“Unbelievable,” Cyrus murmured. There was a faraway gleam in his eye. “I thought it must be true, but to hear you say so… And the place is all Willie claimed it was—a treasure house of antiquities and golden ornaments?”
“It holds enough, at least, to make it worth looting. That is why Emerson and I swore never to betray its location.”
“Yes, of course,” Cyrus said abstractedly.
“We know the identity of the man responsible for our present difficulty, and I have some idea as to how he obtained the information that prompted his attack on us. But I suspect he is not working alone. In fact, I know he is not; he must have enlisted Mohammed, the man who assaulted Emerson today, for it is surely too much of a coincidence to assume that incident is unrelated to the others. Mohammed has been absent from the village for years, and if I read his character aright, he is not the sort of man to risk injury or imprisonment for the sake of an old grievance.”
Cyrus stroked his chin reflectively. “Emerson’s got a lot of enemies.”
“True.” I removed a sheet of paper from the portfolio I had brought with me. “I composed a brief list this afternoon.”
Cyrus’s jaw dropped. “One, two, three… Twelve people who are thirsting for Emerson’s blood? He’s been a busy little bee, hasn’t he?”
“The list may not be complete,” I admitted. “Emerson was a busy little bee even before I met him; new candidates keep turning up. These are the individuals of whom I have personal knowledge. Oh, wait—I forgot Mr. Vincey. That makes thirteen.”
“I hope you’re not superstitious,” Cyrus muttered.
“I?” I laughed lightly. “The number is meaningless in any case. There is a strong probability that several of these people are dead or incarcerated. Alberto”—I inscribed a neat interrogation point after the name—“Alberto certainly was in prison. I used to drop in for a visit when I passed through Cairo, but I have neglected to do so for the last few years. Habib—you remember Habib—”
“Oh, yes. He tried to brain my old buddy once before.”
“He did not appear to be in good health, and that was some years ago. He may have passed on. But it is imperative that we attempt to discover the present whereabouts of these individuals. If any have been recently released from prison, or have suddenly disappeared from their usual haunts …”
“It won’t do any harm to ask,” said Cyrus. He was obviously unconvinced by my reasoning, which was, I admit, based on somewhat slender evidence. I have found that my instincts for criminal behavior are a more reliable guide than logic, but I sensed that argument would not carry any more weight with Cyrus than it ever had with Emerson, though Cyrus would have expressed his reservations more diplomatically.
His brow furrowed, Cyrus ran his finger down the list. It did not pause at the particular name I had feared might rouse painful memories, and I was of course too tactful to point it out. “Reginald Forthright,” Cyrus read. “Is he old Willie’s nephew, the one the newspaper stories mentioned? Sacrificed his brave young life in the search for his uncle? I thought he was dead.”
“Disappeared in the desert,” I corrected. “However, I consider it unlikely that he is involved. For one thing, he knows… But I will say no more. Besides, Tarek would have … I believe I have said all I ought to say.”
“Your acquaintances sure have unusual names,” Cyrus murmured. “Charity Jones, Ahmed the Louse… Sethos? I thought he was dead too.”
“You are making a little joke,” I said, smiling appreciatively. “The name does not refer to the pharaoh of the same name,