The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [114]
“They stop here only long enough to see the pavement Mr. Pétrie found,” Cyrus assured me.
“It is so like Pétrie to leave the painting open and exposed to tourists and other vandals,” I said critically. “After having had one lovely section of pavement destroyed, we made a point of covering up or removing the bits we found. That is the only proper way to proceed.”
Cyrus of course agreed with me.
I kept an eye on the steamer, whose location was easily ascertained by the smoke from its funnels. None of the “cursed tourists” came near us. After a few hours the steady column wavered and moved away, and I dismissed the boat from my mind. I had not supposed Kevin would be among the passengers; he would come by the fastest conveyance, probably the train. But Vincey—devious, devilish adversary that he was—might make use of an unlikely means of transportation simply because it was unlikely.
Emerson had set the entire crew at work on the foreman’s house, leaving me and Ali to finish clearing the last few inches of debris from the second of the smaller ones. It was here that small objects were most likely to be found, and the work had to be done slowly and delicately. Some of the objects, especially those made of the glassy faience, were extremely fragile; others, such as bead necklaces, still showed the original pattern even though the string had rotted away. It was a demonstration of his increasing confidence in my skill at this finicky task that Emerson had assigned me to it and I believe I may say, without undue modesty, that his confidence was deserved.
The walls surrounding the room in which I was working had survived to a height of a meter or more, so I could not see what was going on in the southwest corner of the site. I could hear, though. Most of the remarks came from Emerson, most were profane, and many were directed against Abdullah. Our devoted reis stuck to Emerson like a shadow, and Emerson, whose movements were inclined to be abrupt, kept bumping into him.
It was Abdullah who first saw the men approaching. His shout of “Sitt Hakim!” brought me instantly to my feet and his gestures directed my eyes toward the forms that had occasioned the warning.
There were two of them, both wearing European clothing. The shorter and stouter of the pair had fallen behind, for his companion advanced with long strides. A pith helmet covered his hair and shaded his features, but there was something about that tall straight body that made my senses quiver with alarm. Scrambling over the wall, I ran to intercept Abdullah, who had started toward the newcomers, a long knife in his hand.
“Wait,” I said, catching hold of him to emphasize the order. “And keep calm. There are only two of them, and they would not approach so openly if they—”
A cry from Abdullah and a sudden movement, not from either of the men ahead, but from behind me, stopped my speech. Abdullah fought to free his arm from my grasp. “Let me kill it, Sitt,” he gasped. “It is a demon, an afreet, as I told you. See—it goes to greet its master.”
The cat had leapt from the wall where it had been sleeping in the sunlight. The man stooped to greet it as it ran up to him. It butted its head against his hand, but when he would have picked it up it avoided his grasp and sat down a few feet away.
I reached for my pistol. “Stand perfectly still, Abdullah,” I ordered. “An impetuous advance might bring you into the line of fire.”
“Excellent advice,” said a voice behind me. “Though the only safe place is flat on the ground behind a large rock. Put the gun away, Peabody, before you shoot someone.”
“I intend to shoot someone, if he gives me the slightest excuse to do so. What the devil does he mean, walking coolly up to us this way? You know who it is, don’t you?”
“Certainly,” said Emerson. “I beg you won’t shoot him until we hear what he has to say. I am immensely curious.”
Cyrus and the other men had gathered around. “Me too,” said Cyrus. His voice