The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [133]
“The hot liquid must have opened the cut,” I murmured, pressing my napkin to my mouth. “It is no injury incurred in the line of battle, you know, only a—a bitten lip.”
For a moment we were both silent, thinking—I am sure— quite different thoughts. Then I gave myself a little shake and said briskly, “Now if we may return to the subject of Kevin …”
“I’d like to murder the young rascal,” Cyrus muttered. “If it had not been for him … All right, Amelia, all right. Where is he, and what do you want me to do?”
I explained the situation. “So,” I concluded, “we had better be off at once.”
“Now?” Cyrus exclaimed.
“Certainly. If we hurry we can be back before dark. I do not anticipate another attack so soon; the men who got away can scarcely have had time to report the failure of this one. However, it is difficult walking in the dark.”
With a wry smile Cyrus put down his cup and got to his feet. “Are you going to tell Emerson?”
“No, why should I? I am sure he has already cautioned you not to let me out of your sight.”
“He didn’t have to,” Cyrus said, no longer smiling. There was no need for him to say more; his steady regard and firmly set lips proclaimed his resolution. The removal of the goatee had definitely been an improvement. He reminded me of those strong, silent sheriffs of whom one reads in American fiction.
He left me after promising he would be ready to go in five minutes. I did not require so much time. I put away the tea things and strapped on my belt; then I took from my pocket the small object my groping hands had encountered on the rock-strewn floor of the tomb. My touch has been trained by years of experience; I had known by the shape of it that it was not a stone but an object shaped by man, and the same trained instinct had prompted me to slip it into my pocket.
It was a ring bezel of cheap faience, like those I had found in the workmen’s village and elsewhere. Some bore the name of the ruling pharaoh, others were adorned with the images of different gods. This was of the second variety. The image was that of Sobek—the crocodile god.
Not only Cyrus but two of his men accompanied me this time. All were armed. It was a needless precaution, I felt sure, but men always enjoy marching around with weapons and flexing their figurative muscles, and I saw no reason to deny them this harmless exercise. As I had expected, the journey was without incident, and after hailing Selim, who had come out of hiding when he saw us, we emerged from the mouth of the wadi and walked the short distance to the little mud-brick house.
Kevin had certainly made himself comfortable. We found him sitting on a camel bag in the shade at the front of the house reading a yellowback novel, a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He pretended to go on reading until we were almost upon him; then he leapt to his feet with a theatrical and unconvincing start of surprise.
“Sure an’ it’s one of those mirages I’m seeing—a vision of loveliness like the houris in the Moslem paradise! Top o’ the afternoon to ye, Mrs. Emerson, me dear.”
As he came to meet me the sun set his hair ablaze and reddened his sunburned cheeks. Freckles, snub nose, ingratiating grin, wide blue eyes made up an irresistible picture of a young Irish gentleman—and roused an irresistible urge in my breast. I did not try to resist it. I brought my parasol down on his outstretched arm.
“I am not your dear, and that brogue is as false as your professions of friendship!”
Kevin fell back, rubbing his arm, and Cyrus, unable to hide his smile, said, “I thought you were going to use gentle persuasion. If you wanted the guy beaten up, I could have done that for you.”
“Oh, dear,” I said, lowering the parasol. “I fear that in the stress of emotion I lost sight of my object. Stop cringing, Kevin, I won’t hit you again. Unless you annoy me.”
“I certainly would like to avoid doing so,” said Kevin earnestly. “Would it annoy you if