The Snake, the Crocodile, and the Dog - Elizabeth Peters [75]
At that moment the rustle of linen brought me flying to Emerson’s side. He had turned his head! It was only a slight movement and he did not stir again, but I hovered over him the rest of the night counting every breath and tracing every line of that beloved face with gentle fingers.
The beard would have to go, of course. Unlike his hair, Emerson’s beard is very stiff and prickly. I objected to it as well on aesthetic grounds, for it hid the admirable contours of his jaw and chin, as well as the cleft in the latter organ.
In time of emotional distress the mind tends to focus on petty details. That is a well-known fact and accounts, I believe, for my failure to consider several problems rather more important than Emerson’s beard. They were brought to my attention the following morning, when Cyrus entered to fetch me a breakfast tray and inquire how we had passed the night. I persuaded him—without difficulty—to join me in a cup of coffee, and entertained him by reading excerpts from Ramses’s letter.
“I must telegraph at once, to reassure them,” I said. “The question is, how much shall I tell them? They know nothing of what has transpired—”
“My dear Amelia!” Cyrus, who had been chuckling and shaking his head over the letter, immediately sobered. “If they don’t know already, they soon will. We made no secret of his disappearance—heck, we plastered the whole town with notices. Unless I miss my guess, the English newspapers will get wind of the story from their Cairo correspondents and then we’ll be in the headlines. You and your husband are news, you know.”
The seriousness of the matter was immediately apparent to me. With Cyrus’s help I determined on a course of action. We must telegraph at once, assuring our loved ones that Emerson had been found and that we were both safe and well, and warning them not to believe anything they read in the newspapers. “For I shudder to think what garbled versions of the facts those confounded journalists will report,” I said bitterly. “Curse it, Cyrus, I ought to have anticipated this. I have had enough unpleasant encounters with the ‘gentlemen’ of the press.”
“You had other things on your mind, my dear. The most important thing is to get poor old Emerson back on his feet and in possession of his senses. He’ll take care of the reporters.”
“No one does it better,” I replied, with a lingering glance at the still face of my spouse. “But the danger is not over. The man responsible for this dastardly act got clean away. We dare not assume he will abandon the scheme. We cannot relax our vigilance for an instant, especially while Emerson lies helpless.”
“Don’t worry about that.” Cyrus stroked his goatee. “Abdullah’s relatives have surrounded the place like a band of Apaches besieging a fort. They’ve already manhandled my cook and beat up a date peddler.”
With my mind at ease on this point, and the telegram having been dispatched, I could return my attention to where my heart already lay. It was a trying time, for as the effects of the opium wore off, other, more alarming, symptoms appeared. They were due, Dr. Wallingford thought, to the other drugs Emerson had been given, but treatment was impossible since we did not know what they were.
Abdullah had returned to the prison to find the place swept clean. The police denied having taken anything away, and I was prepared to believe them, since they would not have had the sense to search the scene of the crime. It was evident that the kidnapper had returned to remove any evidence that might incriminate him. This was an ominous sign; but I had no leisure to consider the ramifications or contend with the reporters who, as Cyrus had predicted, besieged us, clamoring for news. Dr. Wallingford moved into one of the guest rooms and concentrated on his most interesting patient. His full attention was required, for coma was succeeded by delirium, and for two