The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [58]
Cyrus flung the paper to the floor. “Amelia,” he cried in poignant accents. “You aren’t going, are you? You wouldn’t be such a blamed fool?”
“Why, Cyrus!” I exclaimed.
My friend shook out an enormous snowy-white linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. “Pardon me. I took a liberty.”
“By using my first name? Dear Cyrus, no one is better entitled than you. You have been a pillar of strength.”
“No, but see here,” Cyrus insisted. “You’re as smart at reading between the lines as I am. I don’t know what it is this dirty yellow dog wants, but sure as shooting he isn’t going to exchange poor old Emerson for anything in writing. How’d he know you were telling the truth? This is just a trick to get ahold of you. Emerson’s a tough nut and stubborner than any mule. You couldn’t get him to talk if you stuck his feet in the fire or pulled out his… Oh, shucks, honey, I’m sorry. They aren’t going to do anything like that, they know it wouldn’t work. But if they had you in their filthy hands, he’d spill the beans all right.”
“As would I, rather than be forced to watch while they…” I could not complete the sentence.
“You’ve got the idea. This ugly cuss needs both of you. That was a cute stunt of Emerson’s, pretending to have amnesia, but it won’t hold up for five seconds after he sets eyes on you. You can’t take the chance, Amelia. It’s for Emerson’s sake as well as yours; they won’t damage him permanently so long as you’re on the loose.”
“I realize that, my dear Cyrus. But how can I not go? It is our first, our only lead. You noted that the—dirty yellow dog seems a fitting description—that he gave no clue as to how I might identify him. That implies that he is someone I know.”
Cyrus slapped his knee. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—you’re the sharpest little lady of my acquaintance. But we’ve got to give this a lot of thought, Amelia. If I were running this scam, I wouldn’t be at the Winter Palace. I’d have some innocent bystander pass you a note instructing you to go someplace else—someplace not so safe. You’d do it, too. Wouldn’t you?”
I could not, did not, deny it. “But,” I argued, “if I were accompanied—not by you, Cyrus, you are too recognizable—but by Abdullah and his friends—”
“Abdullah is as easily recognizable as I am. And be sure, my dear, that you would be led on and on by one means or another until you were beyond the reach of friends.”
I bowed my head. I don’t believe I had ever felt such an agonizing sense of helplessness. By risking capture I would endanger not only myself but Emerson. Our unknown enemy would have no recourse but to murder us once we had told him what he wanted to know. Only by remaining free could I preserve a life dearer to me than my own. And the loathsome letter had given me that much comfort at least. He lived.
Cyrus’s voice broke in on my painful thoughts. “I haven’t asked for your confidence, Amelia, and I won’t. But if you could tell me what it is this devil wants, I might be able to come up with an idea.”
I shook my head. “It would not help, and it might endanger you as well. Only two other people …”
It was like a hammer smashing through the shell of frozen calm that had enclosed me. My only excuse is that I had been so absorbed with Emerson I had neglected other, if lesser, responsibilies. They now came crashing in upon me. With a shriek that echoed among the rafters, I leapt to my feet.
“Ramses! And Nefret! Oh, heaven, what I have I done— or, to be more accurate, neglected to do? A telegram! Cyrus, I must