Tomb of the Golden Bird - Elizabeth Peters [162]
I got him settled, with freshly sharpened pencils and a pile of paper, and then went to my study to put the book safely away. Before I did so, I leafed through the beginning pages, hoping the contents were not as bad as I remembered.
They might have been worse. There was a good deal of panting and burning eyes and passionate glances, but, thank heaven, no anatomical references. David John could not have made much of it. I had to admit the confounded thing had a certain fascination for the vulgar, of whom there are a great number. It was not surprising that it had been the most popular book of the year.
A book that might be found on any bookshelf.
No, I thought. Ridiculous.
It would do no harm to try.
I had made my own copy of the mystery message. Taking it from the desk drawer, I got to work.
“There you are,” said Emerson. “I have been looking—”
I started and let out a little shriek. “Don’t creep up on me like that!”
“I was not creeping,” said Emerson indignantly. “I was looking—”
“Look at this, then.” I thrust the paper on which I had been writing at him.
Emerson’s noble brow furrowed as he read. He looked as disheveled as I had ever seen him, his hair on end, his shirt hanging out of his trousers. An hour with Charla could have that effect.
“What is this nonsense?” he demanded.
“It is not nonsense. It is the mystery message. I have solved the cipher!”
“‘On the first day of the first month the Bull will die. The Judge will die. The Eagle will…’ Die?”
“I hadn’t quite finished.” Referring again to the original numbers, I began turning the pages of Desert Passion.
“Yes,” I said. “Die.”
Emerson was not easily convinced. He had to check the first few words for himself before he admitted I was on the right, the only possible, track.
“Do you understand what this means?” I demanded, as Emerson contemplated the lurid cover of Desert Passion with raised eyebrows. “We were wrong, we were all wrong, about the nature of the conspiracy. It is assassination they plan. The cold-blooded murder of three people!”
“The Bull,” Emerson muttered. “Oh, good Gad. Lord Allenby! He is known as the Bull to enemies and supporters alike. There are dozens of judges…”
“The Judge must be King Fuad. His name is derived from that Arabic word.”
“Yes, yes.” Emerson fingered the cleft in his chin. “I ought to have seen that. I am having a hard time taking this in, Peabody. Wait, though. The eagle is one of the Hashemite symbols. Feisal of Iraq?”
“I would assume so.”
“Apparently,” said Emerson, “these absurd pseudonyms were agreed upon in advance, leaving only the time of the attack to be determined in the final message. Let us have a chat with my brother.”
We found Sethos on the veranda, being waited upon by Fatima and fawned upon by the Great Cat of Re. The cat had taken an unaccountable fancy to him. I should have known that was a bad sign.
“That child,” Sethos declared, rubbing his back, “is the most formidable opponent I have ever encountered. Her idea of tagging someone is to run headlong into him. Margaret nobly offered to take charge of her after she—”
“The message is not a fake, nor gibberish,” I said, for in my opinion time was of the essence. “I have deciphered it.”
I handed him the paper. As he read it, his eyes narrowed to slits. “I don’t believe it,” he said flatly.
“Are you accusing Peabody of inventing this?” Emerson demanded.
“No. She wouldn’t…” He broke off, biting his lip.
“Oh, yes, she would, if she had a good reason for doing so.”
“Thank you, my dear,” I said, much gratified.
“But she didn’t,” Emerson went on. “I have verified her deductions—not,” he added hastily, “that it was necessary. There can be no question about it. You lied—again.”
Margaret appeared at the door of the veranda. She looked windblown and disheveled, but there was color in her cheeks, and she was smiling. The smile didn’t last.
“Lied?” she repeated, looking from Emerson to Sethos. “What did he lie about this time?”
“It was not a lie,” Sethos said vehemently. “The story I told you was true. There