The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [57]
“Don’t you fret, Mrs. Amelia. We’ll get him back if we have to tear this two-bit town apart. Some good old American know-how is what is wanted here; and Cyrus Vandergelt, U.S.A., is the man to supply it!”
The years had been kind to my friend. There might be a few more silver threads in his hair and goatee, but their sun-bleached fairness looked just the same. His stride was as athletic and vigorous, the clasp of his hand as strong, and his wits as keen as ever. He brought to our problem a cynical intelligence and a knowledge of the world no one had been able to supply. When, in answer to his questions, I described the imprisonment of the Gurnah thieves, he shook his head impatiently.
“Sure, I know those Gurnah crooks detest my old pal, but this isn’t their style. They’re more inclined to throw knives or rocks. This smacks of something more sinister. What have you and the professor been up to lately, Mrs. Amelia? Or has that young rascal Ramses pulled another shady deal?”
I was tempted to tell him what I suspected, but I did not dare. I cleared Ramses, as was only proper, but replied that I could not explain the event.
Cyrus was too shrewd to accept this—or perhaps he knew me so well he sensed my hesitation. He was also too much of a gentleman to question my word. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think. He isn’t dead. They’d have found the… er… found him by now. This has got to be a question of ransom. Why else would they hold him prisoner?”
“There are other reasons,” I replied, repressing a shudder.
“Now put that out of your head, Mrs. Amelia. Money is a lot more powerful incentive than revenge. I’ll bet you you’ll get a ransom note. If you don’t, why, we’ll offer a reward.”
It was something to do, at least. The following day every tree and wall in Luxor bore the hastily printed placards. For reasons of my own which I could not explain to Cyrus, I did not expect results; and indeed, the message that arrived that evening was only indirectly related, if at all, to the offer.
It was carried by a ragged fellah, whose willingness to be detained supported his claim of innocence. He was a messenger only; the man who had given him the letter, with a modest tip and an assurance of greater reward upon delivery, had been a stranger to him. Few people are good observers, but it seemed evident from the messenger’s confused description that there had been nothing distinctive about the man’s dress or appearance.
We sent the messenger away with promises of untold riches if he was able to supply any further information. I thought he was honest. But if he was not, we were more likely to win him over by bribes than by punishment.
Cyrus and I had been in the library. After the messenger had gone, I sat turning the letter over and over in my hands. It was addressed to me, in large printed letters. The envelope bore the name of one of the Luxor hotels.
“If you would like to be alone when you read it…” Cyrus began. He had asked my permission to smoke and held one of his long thin cheroots.
“That is not why I hesitate,” I admitted. “I am afraid to open it, Cyrus. It is the first ray of hope I have beheld. If it proves false… But such cowardice does not become me.”
With a firm hand I reached for a letter opener.
I read through the letter twice. Cyrus held his tongue; the effort must have been difficult, for when I looked at him he was leaning forward, his face drawn with suspense. Silently I handed him the letter.
I might have given it to an individual I trusted less than I did my old friend without fear of betraying the deadly secret. It was the most suavely villainous, discreetly threatening epistle I have ever read. I felt contaminated by the mere touch of the paper.
Your husband is disinclined to confide in us [it began], He claims his memory is faulty. It seems